


Line-Up

by Guede



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Prohibition Era, Amorality, Bondage, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Film Noir, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, Loss of Innocence, M/M, Murder Husbands, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-26 20:49:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 110,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17148866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guede/pseuds/Guede
Summary: The one where they're all gangsters and being a gangster is a little more grit and blood, and a little less flash and cool.





	1. Number Three

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to LJ between 2009 and 2010.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A man goes and does a job, and meets another man.

As Zlatan came in, he banged the umbrella against the jamb. Water splattered off it into the foyer, adding to the puddles leaking from the doormat. He stepped in one and felt the extra wetness soak up into his already-sopping trousers. “All the boys here?” he asked.

The doorman nodded, keeping his pistol trained on Zlatan. He stiffened up when Zlatan crooked the umbrella and Zlatan paused, then slumped against the wall, chuckling quietly to himself. Then he held out the umbrella. The doorman looked at it.

“Give me a hand here,” Zlatan said. He nodded at his other hand, which was holding the handle of a dark leather bag, sack-like, the kind of thing a doctor maybe would use to carry his tools. “I can’t take off my coat otherwise.”

For a moment the doorman studied the situation. His eyes flicked to Zlatan’s casual smile, too insouciant, the exact opposite of trying to put the man at ease. Then he sighed and put out his hand; Zlatan tipped the umbrella so its tip slapped into it. Droplets of water splashed up from the umbrella’s silk folds and the doorman flinched. His eyes shut and in that brief moment Zlatan’s arm swung out through the space between them. The knife at the end of it passed cleanly, swiftly through the front of the man’s throat. It was out by the time Zlatan’s bag had hit the floor.

The man’s shocked gurgle was largely overridden by the slapping smack sound of the umbrella being opened. His wide eyes disappeared behind its black folds. His hand beat at it once, and the spatter of his blood against the umbrella sounded like the pattering of the rain had just a few minutes before.

Zlatan threw his body weight forward and stepped over his bag, driving the other man back into the wall. He kept the umbrella high to ensure that it kept the blood off him, then stabbed through it. The body on the other side wheezed wetly and thrashed as Zlatan used the umbrella to push it along the wall, till he could force it into the corner. Then he shoved it down on the floor, let go of the knife and straightened up. He took a step back and regarded the umbrella as it moved weakly up and down. The knife in the middle of it rose half an inch, fell a little less, rose again but even less. Zlatan reached into his coat and took out a small gold tin, a little bigger than a deck of cards but much thinner. He flicked open the lid and took out a cigarette, which he stuck in his mouth while he put away the case. Then he plucked the cigarette from his mouth and nudged at the umbrella handle with his toe, so it moved down just enough for him to see the doorman’s face.

It was enough. He put his foot down and the umbrella snapped back into place, hiding the corpse. He pushed his bag up against the umbrella to hold it in place, then shut and locked the door. Then he turned around and headed down the hall.

The front two rooms were empty. A light was on in the kitchen, and another in the dining room just to the left of it. Zlatan headed for the dining room. The door was ajar and through the crack he could see a table, crumpled bills carelessly scattered over it, a glass of something whiskey-colored. He knocked once and stood back to let them let him in.

“Hey, you’re late.” The one nearest the door kicked out a chair for him.

“Got stuck at work,” Zlatan said. “Got to make the money so I can come here and play.”

“Yeah, you and—” The same man turned towards the kitchen, from which another man was emerging, still dressed in a trenchcoat but carrying a double fistful of beers.

Zlatan first shot the man with his back to him, then went around the table and ended with the one in the kitchen doorway, who hadn’t had the sense to even try pitching the bottles at him. He toppled over and Zlatan noted the fresh bruise on the man’s jaw, the slight bulkiness of the man’s shoulder, as if it was wrapped up under his shirt. The echoes of the shots died away and gradually Zlatan detected a faint noise from the kitchen.

They were all enforcers, wetwork specialists, and this was a common staging area for their operations as well as a hang-out. Of course Zlatan had no professional interest in what they were doing, merely his own curiosity, but all the same he stepped over the body and into the kitchen.

On the floor was another man, lying on his belly with his arms bound, hands beneath him. His legs were bent back so his feet were pointing towards his head, and a rope went from his ankles to around his neck. He’d managed to get himself up against a cabinet so he could brace his shins, but given how he was breathing, he was tired. He was facing away from Zlatan but the ear and the bit of cheek Zlatan could see was more purplish than red.

Zlatan glanced behind him at the bodies in the other room. He turned around and used the tip of his gun, handily lengthened by the silencer, to flip open the coat of the one in the doorway. A quick search of the body turned up a gold watch, too elegant for the man’s showy clothes, and an extra wallet, which Zlatan flipped open. _Paolo Maldini_ , he read on the driver’s license. The picture on it was of a handsome man, in his thirties if the birth-date was accurate.

He flipped the wallet shut and stuck it and the watch in his pocket, then put his cigarette back between his lips as he went over to the man on the kitchen floor. He looked at the knots, then turned to the kitchen counter. Laid out on it were half of a lime, some wedges and a paring knife. It wasn’t that sharp, but the rope that went between the man’s neck and his ankles was pretty cheap.

The last strand snapped apart before Zlatan could cut it and the man’s legs jack-knifed back, their feet dragging along Zlatan’s coat. He inhaled roughly, coughed and twisted half-over, the violent red flush in his face persisting. His eyes were wildly light in comparison, like high-beams flashing on a dark country road.

 _Green eyes, brown hair_ , the license had run. _Six feet_. Probably a bit over that, but it wasn’t an unreasonable inaccuracy. The rope around his arms hadn’t been connected to the other one and it still held firm, knotting up his hands against his breast. He stopped jerking around after a few seconds except for his head, which he kept rubbing against Zlatan’s feet. The noose-knot around his neck hadn’t loosened up much.

Zlatan reached down, then paused. This Maldini didn’t. He didn’t stiffen up or flinch, but just kept moving his head and watching Zlatan. When Zlatan pushed his hand under the man’s chin, he lifted it a little so Zlatan could hook two fingers under the rope. Then Zlatan yanked it out. Maldini hissed, then exhaled roughly. His eyes stayed on Zlatan.

“Are you the only one he was doing?” Zlatan asked.

“I’m the only one here,” Maldini said after a moment, voice gravelly. He turned his head to the side and coughed harshly, then looked back at Zlatan. Those eyes of his weren’t asking anything.

A half-grin slipped onto Zlatan’s face, then left. He got Maldini by the arm and pulled him into a sitting position against the cabinets, then used the paring knife to half-pick, half-slash the rope around the man’s ankles. Then he tossed that aside and came back. He fingered a lock of Maldini’s hair, letting the natural curl of it twist around his glove. “This is different. Not like your photo.”

A flicker went through Maldini’s eyes. “They came so late I didn’t have time to fix my hair for them,” he said dryly. His voice was still raspy, but as raw and bruised as his neck looked, it didn’t seem like his vocal cords had been hurt much.

Zlatan grinned again and dropped his hand, then twisted it quick. He hooked his fingers through the rope about Maldini’s neck and yanked up hard, till Maldini was on his feet. The man stumbled and fell against Zlatan, his bound hands catching against Zlatan’s coat. His hair crushed into Zlatan’s cheek and left it wet with the sweat in it when he pushed himself back, eyes finally glittering with something. Injured pride, anger, fear. Not a lot of desperation.

“They take anything else of yours?” Zlatan said. He put a hand to Maldini’s shoulder and pushed him back against the counter. “I’ve got your wallet and your watch. Any rings? Your car—”

“No,” Maldini said curtly.

“You sure?”

Maldini leaned against the counter in the rope and his shirt-sleeves, with the noose still hanging from his neck. He seemed about to demand something of Zlatan, but then he shut his mouth. He pursed his lips and looked away, at the cabinet opposite of him. His right hand idly twisted in its bonds. “No, there’s nothing. They wanted it clean.”

“With how they were doing it?”

Maldini cut his eyes back to Zlatan. The color of his face had faded and now Zlatan could see the green of his eyes. “That’s why they took me here. Clean snatch, and then dump my body when they need somebody to find it.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Zlatan said after a moment. He put his gun away and stepped into the next room. “Stay there. I’ll be back in a minute.”

He went through the room and back down the hall, checking around. When he got to the doorman, he put his foot on the man’s leg and then leaned against it as he pulled out his knife. Then he clicked open the bag he’d left there and pulled out a cloth. He wrapped the knife in it and dropped it into the bag before turning around.

Zlatan went back into the kitchen and looked down: Maldini didn’t have shoes or socks on. So he put his hands around Maldini’s waist. He pulled the man away from the counter, then stooped and swung him over one shoulder. After a moment to adjust to the weight, Zlatan walked over to the kitchen door and opened it. He maneuvered Maldini through the door—it helped that Maldini didn’t struggle—and down the steps, to the back-alley where Zlatan’s car was parked. He put Maldini in on the front passenger side and then got into the driver’s side. A minute to make sure everything was arranged properly and then Zlatan sat up.

“What’s that for?” Maldini muttered. He was looking at Zlatan’s unlit cigarette.

“I’m not a smoker, not really.” Zlatan took the cigarette out of his mouth and turned it over in his fingers. He’d crushed the filter a bit, he noted. Then he turned to the other man. “You?”

“I don’t smoke either.” But Maldini leaned forward, his head cocking an invitation, and when Zlatan flipped around the cigarette so the right end was pointing at him, Maldini opened his mouth. The edge of his lip glimmered a little in the moonlight, which provided the only light in the alley.

Maldini stayed bent down so Zlatan could light the cigarette, and then he slowly straightened up. He stiffened slightly as the creak of a car door reached them, but settled down as two men got out of a car down the alley and went into the house from which they’d just come. The tip of his cigarette flared red as he drew on it, then cooled as a long stream of grey smoke curled out of his nose.

“How long—thank you—how long do we have to sit here?” Maldini asked.

Zlatan took back the cigarette and stubbed it out before he answered. “Till now,” he said, starting the engine.

* * *

The hotel room was nice, if a bit small. And too lacy for Zlatan’s taste. He flipped one of the bed-trimmings, then sneered as he shouldered out of his coat. He laid that down on the bed, inside side down, before quickly stripping out of the rest of his clothes, including his shoes. All of that he folded up as best he could and put down on the outside of the coat. Then he remembered the other man sitting the corner and put on another set of clothes. The blazer and tie he set aside for tomorrow morning, on the table to Maldini’s right.

Maldini was still sitting in the original position he’d taken up, slightly slouched, his fingers interlaced over his breastbone, his legs uncrossed but with the knees mostly bent. “Can I have some water?” he asked.

“In a second. I need to tidy up first.” Zlatan went back to the bed and began to wrap up his coat around the rest of his clothes. He used the sleeves to knot up the package and then stuffed it into a cloth bag, which he dropped in the corner. “And I’m hungry. They do a pretty good steak here.”

“I’m not hungry,” Maldini said.

“Yeah? Not a smoker either. You gamble? Have any vices?” It was nearer morning than evening, according to the clock. They’d had to come far off the main roads to get to this little inn and Zlatan was going to have to wake up somebody to get fed. On second thought, he figured he’d just stick to the sandwich he’d brought with him, and he went to get it. That bag was by Maldini. “What do you do?”

Zlatan sat back on his heels, his sandwich dangling from one hand, and looked up at Maldini. The other man’s mouth twitched. His eyes swept slowly over Zlatan. “I’m a—I used to be a manager in a shipping company. I thought you were having a steak.”

“Used to be?” Zlatan repeated, unwrapping his sandwich. “And I think I’ll be nice to the people here. They’re probably sleeping now.”

“I think I’ve been fired.” Maldini glanced at his hands. He twisted his right index finger around the ring finger of his left hand, where a strip of lighter skin marked out the absence of a ring. “Or I’ve quit.”

Of course Zlatan could already guess which shipping company. He took a bite of his sandwich and chewed thoroughly, enjoying the way the flavors melded in his mouth. Worth the trouble of driving across town for it every week. “I don’t remember you, and I thought I knew the managers.”

“I don’t think you would’ve met me. I was one of the straight ones and people knew it, so they didn’t bother trying to bribe me,” Maldini said a little angrily. Then he took a deep breath and stared out at the room. “Didn’t know that there was a difference till—”

“There’s a phone in the lobby,” Zlatan said after a few minutes’ silence. By then he’d eaten most of the sandwich and was using its wrapper to wipe off his mouth. “You got anybody you want to call, to let them know you’re still alive?”

Maldini looked sharply at him. Then away, with that hard fixed stare. “No.”

“Your wife must—”

“I’m not married,” Maldini interrupted. Then he grimaced and looked down at his hands, touching that band of paler skin. “This was from my ring from…we had a kind of club at work. I thought it was a bit like a brotherhood. My work was my wife, you could say. Could’ve said.”

After a moment, Zlatan shrugged and stood up. He pitched the sandwich wrapper into the trash-can and stood in the middle of the room, absently rubbing his hands on his hips. Then he went back to the chair and pulled Maldini up onto his feet. “Come on. You need to get cleaned up some.”

Maldini let Zlatan take him into the washroom and push him against the sink. He didn’t mention the rope around his hands as Zlatan used a damp washcloth to dab at the raw sore the noose had left on his neck. Just tilted his head around for Zlatan, looking off into space.

“Thanks for offering to let me call,” he suddenly said.

“I wasn’t going to actually let you.” Zlatan stopped with the cloth and leaned against the sink.

After a moment, Maldini slung himself slowly around on his heel. He looked at Zlatan up and down, and then smiled thinly. “I didn’t think so. But it was a nice offer. Are you waiting for your friends to come back and help you with me?”

“Friends? Oh, them. No, they’re busy cleaning up the house,” Zlatan said. He reached out and touched the rope running around Maldini’s arms, walking his fingers up it till they came to the knot over one bicep. Then he closed his hand over it and used it to pull Maldini towards him. “You want to call the police?”

“No,” Maldini said after some thought. “It wouldn’t do any good. I thought they were cops when they knocked at the door. So you’re taking care of me yourself?”

Zlatan shrugged and dragged Maldini closer; Maldini stepped on Zlatan’s toes, then moved his foot between Zlatan’s feet. The man breathed a little faster, then calmed. Then he glanced down as the rope around his chest loosened, dropped to the floor. He lifted his head and Zlatan grabbed the rope hanging from his neck, and pulled that over his head. It pushed some strands of hair into Maldini’s eyes and after he’d tossed aside the rope, Zlatan brushed those back. Then he let his hand linger, tracing around the shell of Maldini’s ear. He watched Maldini think that over.

“You weren’t mentioned in the contract,” Zlatan said. “I don’t get paid to kill you.”

Maldini pursed his lips. His hands were still bound but he could move his arms now and he shifted them a little, probably stretching out a cramp. His fingers grazed Zlatan’s chest, curled away and then spread to press against Zlatan’s stomach, in a rough semicircle around Zlatan’s belly-button. “But I’m a witness, aren’t I?”

“Are you?”

“No,” Maldini said after a moment. He looked Zlatan straight in the eye. His fingertips curled, hooking into Zlatan’s shirt, which wasn’t tucked into his trousers. The cloth pulled up till Zlatan could feel air against his stomach, and then the side of a finger. “Are you letting me go?”

Zlatan drew his hand around Maldini’s ear again, but this time he let his fingers keep drifting down Maldini’s neck. He touched the rope-burn lightly and Maldini flinched, then half-closed his eyes. His lashes were so long that Zlatan had to run his thumbnail over the left eye’s, just to see them flick back into place. “Well, I won’t shoot you. Can’t say much about anybody else.”

“That’s true.” Maldini opened his eyes and stepped forward. They were so close that he had to slide his hands up Zlatan’s shirt to make room. The rope around his wrists scratched at Zlatan’s skin. “I can’t pay you. I’m sure they’ve made sure of that.”

“I can get a hooker, you know. Even out here in the sticks,” Zlatan said.

There wasn’t a flicker in Maldini’s eyes as he shoved at Zlatan. Then he lifted his hands and dropped his arms around Zlatan’s neck, and pulled himself up tight against Zlatan. His eyes were glittering again, and now that they were that close Zlatan could feel a tremble running through the other man. It was the shivery, subtle kind of tremble that could be going on for hours and hours, and you wouldn’t know till suddenly a fight broke out or worse.

“So go out and get one,” Maldini rasped, pressing his mouth down on Zlatan’s.

Zlatan fell back against the sink. He put his hands on Maldini’s hips and they rolled under his palms, like the smooth roll of new tires on a good road. His hands slipped back so they were cupping Maldini’s buttocks and he gripped them, pulling up as Maldini’s tongue burned around the inside of Zlatan’s mouth. Then he twisted around, hauling Maldini up onto the counter. He winced as the other man pulled strands out of his scalp, then surprised himself by gasping when Maldini pulled off his mouth.

It didn’t seem like Maldini needed as much breath. He didn’t lose a second as he applied himself instead to Zlatan’s neck, laving up and down it with his whole mouth, sucking as much as he was licking. Zlatan shivered, cursed, and grabbed at Maldini’s waistband, scrabbling till he got it open. His fingertips ghosted over hot skin and Maldini snarled in his ear, then levered himself up using his arms on Zlatan’s shoulders. He twisted and Zlatan pushed once with his hands, and Maldini’s trousers slid down around his thighs. Then Maldini bucked up, lifting himself from the counter, and the trousers dropped past the edge of that and got out of the way.

They’d been knocking into things the whole time. Soap-dish, bottles, little knick-knacks. Zlatan put his hand down to steady himself and it came up slick. He smelled lavender. He grinned and bit Maldini’s shoulder, getting some skin through a rip in the shirt, and put his hand between Maldini’s legs. They snapped shut, trapping Zlatan’s hand between them, and Zlatan stopped grinning. He called Maldini a bastard and some other names, and dug his nails hard into the inside of Maldini’s thigh. Maldini gasped and let his legs fall open, and as Zlatan forced his fingers up and into him, Maldini grabbed Zlatan’s head and kissed Zlatan hard.

One moment Maldini was twisting, clawing, losing that eerie calm of his spectacularly, and the next he was forcing his head into the side of Zlatan’s neck, shaking uncontrollably, getting come on Zlatan’s stomach. He made a high sort of keen that abruptly broke off in a gravelly raspy gasp. His fingers flexed, then relaxed against Zlatan’s back.

Zlatan gave him a couple moments, busy with his own trousers, then took his fingers out and pushed Maldini back. The other man wasn’t trying to stay up and it wasn’t going to work like that; Zlatan snarled himself in irritation and swung them around so he could brace Maldini’s back against the wall. Maldini started to lift his head just as Zlatan got his hands under Maldini’s thighs, and so Zlatan could see the man’s eyes widen when Zlatan unceremoniously shoved his prick into him. The click of Maldini’s teeth coming together ricocheted like a gunshot around the small room.

Bad angle. Zlatan couldn’t get more than halfway in, even with Maldini still slack. He shoved at Maldini again, then pushed his head under Maldini’s chin to keep the man there while he thrust up a second time. Things stuck, then shifted right and Zlatan exhaled deeply. On his back Maldini’s hands began to move. The other man pushed his elbows onto Zlatan’s shoulders, then hitched himself up the wall and flexed in with his hips at the same time, which was a lot better. Now Zlatan could fuck him. Now he let Zlatan do that. His head went back against the wall and he was staring at the ceiling as Zlatan dropped his face into the man’s shoulder.

* * *

“You could use some new clothes,” Zlatan said, slinging towels over the bars to dry.

Maldini leaned against the wall. He had one towel wrapped around his waist, and was using another to scrub the water out of his hair. “Can I borrow yours?”

“You’ll have to till we get back to the city, but you’ll look pretty silly.” Zlatan flicked water off his fingers and looked round the washroom, then saw a smear of something on the sink. He went over and rubbed it off with his fingers, then rinsed his hands. Other than that, he thought he’d gotten everything tidied up.

“Till we get back to the city?” Maldini repeated carefully. He lowered his hands, looking hard at Zlatan. Then he glanced away and rubbed at one of the sores on his right wrist.

“You wanna go somewhere else? Then you’ll have to find somebody else,” Zlatan told him. He opened the medicine cabinet above the sink, sniffed at its meager contents and went out into the next room. He came back with some rolls of cotton bandages and a tin of liniment, which he put down on the counter by Maldini. “I’m not on vacation here. I’ve got work waiting for me.”

Maldini flopped the towel in his right hand, then held it out. When Zlatan took it, the other man turned to the counter. “I wasn’t sure,” Maldini said quietly.

Zlatan laughed and hung up the towel. “Then why the hell did you let me fuck you?”

“Because I needed it,” Maldini said shortly. Then he put his hand down on the sink, his head bowed. A long dark bruise stretched across his back from just below his left shoulderblade to the middle of his spine. It was about as wide as a thumb and ruler-straight, as if he’d been thrown against a shelf. “Because I’d just died but I hadn’t really moved on yet, and I needed it.”

“Died? You look like you’re breathing to me.” Zlatan went over to the other man. He stood behind him and looked at Maldini’s expression in the mirror, then put his hand on Maldini’s back, right over the bruise. He felt the muscles tense and ran his knuckles lightly up and down them, then cupped his hand over Maldini’s shoulder and turned the other man to face him. “You look pretty alive to me, Mr. Paolo Ma—”

“Paolo.”

“Ah,” Zlatan said after a moment.

Paolo tipped his head to the side, his gaze sliding sideways off Zlatan’s face. He breathed in slowly as Zlatan touched the bruises on his neck, then breathed out just as slowly when Zlatan bent and kissed one. His hands came up and rested on Zlatan’s upper arms, not pushing or pulling. When Zlatan straightened up, Paolo turned his head back so they were looking at each other again.

“You can call me Zlatan, or Ibra. Or asshole, but I can’t guarantee I’ll answer to that one all the time,” Zlatan told him. He grinned and Paolo didn’t.

“Why’d you take me with you?” Paolo asked. A small furrow appeared between his brows.

Zlatan pushed his thumb into it, then took it away. The furrow was still there and Paolo hadn’t watched Zlatan’s hand, but had gazed past it. “I like you. I liked the way you looked.”

“Tied up and strangling to death?” Paolo’s brows arched and Zlatan licked his thumb, then ran it along one. This time Paolo turned his head into it, but he kept looking at Zlatan.

“I kill people for a living. With how I usually see people, you looked pretty good,” Zlatan said. Then he grinned again and twisted his fingers in Paolo’s hair. “Mostly the tied-up part.”

The line of Paolo’s mouth bent a little, slightly upward. He reached out and put his hand on Zlatan’s wrist, the one raised by his head. Then he pushed it slowly down Zlatan’s arm, watching Zlatan the whole time till he’d shoved Zlatan’s sleeve up past the elbow. Only then did he look down at the tattoo there. He didn’t ask about it, just traced part of it with a fingertip.

“What were you like before?” Zlatan asked.

“I was…a good man, I think. I obeyed the law, and worked hard, and tried to do my duty,” Paolo said slowly. “I know that not everyone likes that kind of life, but I thought that I knew people who did. I tried to work with only people who did, and I…”

Zlatan untwined the strand of hair from his finger, and pushed it back behind Paolo’s ear. “You ever lose your temper?”

He looked up quick at Zlatan, but his eyes were calm. “Everyone does. But I never hurt someone who’d done right by me. I tried never to hurt anyone, ever. I thought it was better to be hurt a little myself than make it worse.”

“You’d think.” Then Zlatan turned away. He stepped around Paolo and went into the next room. “You know how to use a gun?”

“Yes.” When Zlatan turned back, Paolo seemed a little embarrassed. He made a small gesture with his hand. “A rifle. I like hunting—a group of us used to go out in the country nearly every weekend in the fall. I mean I liked it.”

“I think you still like that. Anyway, easier to learn a pistol than a rifle,” Zlatan said. He bent over his luggage and began to sort through his clothes. “Go ahead, see to yourself. I’ll leave something for you on the bed, and then I’ve got to step outside for a moment.”

* * *

Henrik swung open the door of his car and twisted in his seat to get his legs out. He took the bundle of dirty clothes Zlatan held out, then bent back and got something from the backseat. A couple of long flat boxes, the kind that fancy shops used to pack clothes. In the quiet of the night, Zlatan could hear the tissue-paper inside crumpling as he took them.

“I saw him in the car with you,” Henrik said.

“See his collar size and inseam from that far, too?” Zlatan tucked the boxes under one arm and pulled out his cigarette case. He offered, Henrik declined with a weary look, and Zlatan grinned as he put away the case. “You knew he’d be in there?”

The other man shook his head. Then he slouched against the back of his seat and rubbed his left eye. “No, but when I saw him, I knew who he was. I just thought that they’d already taken care of him. They were supposed to do it last night.”

“They got him last night, but then it looked like they were trying to get fancy with getting rid of him, and it went long,” Zlatan said. “Amateurs.”

Henrik opened his mouth, then closed it. All he needed to do anyway was look at Zlatan the way he was, faintly bemused at his recollections. Then he shook his head and rubbed his eye again, muttering something about getting kerosene in it.

Zlatan shifted on his feet. He glanced over his shoulder, up at the window of his room. The shutters were tightly shut but a little light could be made out through their slats. Then the light vanished. “I liked him. I thought it was pretty nasty of them, so…and they were dead anyway, so it wasn’t like they would care what happened to their job. And—”

“You like him and I already brought you clothes for him, Zlatan,” Henrik said with just a little exasperation. “Fine.”

“Yeah?” Zlatan asked, turning back.

“Like I said, I know who he is.” Henrik shrugged and swung his legs back into the car. On the far seat was Zlatan’s bag, but Henrik didn’t offer to pass it over and Zlatan didn’t ask for it back. “You’re about at the point where you could use the company, and better him than you taking to crawling in bars and clubs.”

Zlatan snorted. “I’m not that type—”

“I know. The house is cleaned up, so I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon,” Henrik said. He pulled the door shut and started his engine as Zlatan backed away. “Besides, we’re recruiting.”

Then he drove off, just as Zlatan was twisting back to stare at him. So instead Zlatan watched Henrik’s car speed away, thinking about that last remark. Henrik had done that on purpose, of course.

* * *

The room was pitch-dark when Zlatan came back up. He fumbled his way to the washroom and turned on the light there—electricity was about the only update this place had—then left it on as he went about wrapping up for the night. He was sitting on the bed and taking off his shoes when something moved behind him.

“Still here?” Zlatan said after a moment.

Paolo pushed back the sheets and drew himself up by Zlatan. “Why not?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you had second thoughts. You were a nice, upstanding citizen, after all.” Zlatan finished with his left shoe and nudged it up against his right. He undid the front of his trousers but kept them on as he pulled his legs onto the bed. A moment for Paolo to move out of the way, and then he laid down on his back. “Maybe you were mad at me for what I did.”

“You saved me,” Paolo said. He didn’t say it like you would think a grateful man would say it. His voice was flat and deliberate.

The light in the washroom was still on. Grunting, irritated with himself for forgetting that, Zlatan got up and went over, holding up his trousers as he walked. He turned it off and came back and laid down again. “Yeah, and I fucked you too.”

“I wanted you to fuck me.” A little more feeling came into Paolo’s voice. He shifted beside Zlatan so his knees prodded Zlatan’s arm. “I don’t have second thoughts. I never have. I think about what I need to do and once I’ve thought about it, I do it.”

“You were wrong about your employer, weren’t you? Your little brotherhood?”

“Yes,” Paolo said after a moment. He stretched the word from a whisper to almost a hiss. Then he got down by Zlatan, on his side from the feel of it. “And no. I accept that people change. And I accept that at some point I became wrong about certain people. But I think I was right in the beginning. And even though I’m wrong now, I don’t think I bear any fault for the changes in them. My conscience is clear.”

Zlatan laughed under his breath and turned his head to face Paolo. “You’re not that nice. You know that before, or were you—did you end up wrong about that, too?”

“I never had reason to be otherwise before.” Then Paolo put down his head. He must have not been able to see well, because he put it half on Zlatan’s shoulder. When he realized what he was doing, he got up again and he paused, then crawled on top of Zlatan. He felt good like that, long limbs and firmly muscled torso, with weight but not so heavy it was uncomfortable. “I want you to fuck me again. Not now. But more than once.”

“You think about that too?” Zlatan asked. He patted around till he found Paolo’s shoulder. His shirt was loose on Paolo, and the other man hadn’t buttoned it all the way up either, so it was already half-off the shoulder. All Zlatan had to do was turn his hand around and his fingers were under the linen.

And all Paolo had to do was arch that shoulder, and Zlatan’s fingers had slid down onto his chest. He bent forward so his lower lip brushed at Zlatan’s mouth as he spoke. “I did.”

Zlatan opened his mouth and Paolo ran his tongue over the corner of Zlatan’s lip into it. He didn’t match lip to lip, but licked across the backs of Zlatan’s teeth, then let his tongue and mouth drag back over the side of Zlatan’s lip. Inhaling again, because he’d lost the first breath, Zlatan pulled his hand back up to Paolo’s neck, feathering his fingers over the thick bandage there. “I got you some clothes that’ll fit. Well, Henke did.”

“Henke?” Paolo didn’t tense, but he stopped moving for a moment.

“Henrik, I mean. To you. Don’t worry, you’ll meet him later. He’s not going to fuck you,” Zlatan said, tugging at Paolo’s neck. As the other man came towards him, Zlatan twisted them over and took the opportunity to kiss Paolo while he was at it. At first Paolo was slack with surprise, but then he turned his head and languidly followed Zlatan’s lead. “But I’m going to,” Zlatan added.

Paolo made an acknowledging noise. He put his hand on Zlatan’s side and let Zlatan drape his arms around him. Then Zlatan thought he’d gone to sleep, but suddenly Paolo gripped him, shaking hard. The tremor made Paolo’s teeth chatter like he was cold and Zlatan pushed him back against the mattress, but by then it was already over. Paolo breathed in deeply, then exhaled just as slowly.

“I’m fine,” he said. He pushed Zlatan off, but then wrapped his hand around Zlatan’s wrist and pulled Zlatan’s arm back over him. “I’m fine now.”

“All right.” But Zlatan stayed up another ten minutes or so, listening to Paolo’s breath change, before he bothered about trying to fall asleep himself.

* * *

Zlatan got up when the light streaks in the sky were still from false dawn. He packed his things and went to settle the bill with the hotelkeeper, and came back up to find Paolo dressed and sitting on the bed. Paolo got up and got one of Zlatan’s bags as Zlatan came through the door, and Zlatan let that pass. They carried the luggage down the back way and were on the road only a few minutes later.

“How are the clothes?” Zlatan asked.

“Fine,” Paolo said without looking at them. He had on a black suit with a snowy white shirt and a black tie. Simple. It seemed to fit all right, the pull of it over his shoulders not bunching when he pushed himself up in his seat. His hair was still a tangle of curls, like he’d pulled apart the bad knots with his fingers but otherwise let it be.

The road was empty for as far as Zlatan could see. He checked the gas gauge, then stepped up the speed. “In about an hour we’ll stop for gas. There’s a barbershop too if you want to get fixed up.”

At that Paolo looked over, his gaze sliding from Zlatan’s eyes down to Zlatan’s jaw and then back up. He kept his hands in his lap, folded neatly on top of each other. Occasionally he’d pull down his cuff to hide the bandages on his wrists. “You want me to get fixed up?”

Zlatan glanced at him, then grinned and leaned back to tap his hands across the steering wheel. “You look all right to me. Maybe a shave.”

“I can wait till we get to the city,” Paolo said neutrally. “I don’t want to slow you up.”

“That’s nice of you,” Zlatan replied. He hummed a few bars of a song that was rattling around in his head, then tried to remember where he’d heard it. Then he laughed and looked at Paolo. “Well, if you’re hungry, we can stay there a bit anyway to get some food.”

Paolo brushed his hand over his stomach, his mouth twisting a little as its growl trailed off. He looked down at his lap. “It’s nothing that would kill me.”

“You’re trying to make this too easy. Don’t try so hard. I want some breakfast too. It’s just I wanted to get an early start.” Even with breakfast and maybe a trip to the barber’s, they’d still make the city well before noon. That would give Zlatan a couple hours to wash up, take a nap, go down to the—well, no, since Paolo was along Zlatan would have to see to him. “I like your hair better like this, but if people are going to notice it…”

“You care about current styles?” Paolo asked. His brows rose.

Zlatan laughed again, and ran one hand through his own untidy hair. “No, unless they look good. But is anyone in the city going to be able to pick you out? You’re pretty—well, pretty.”

Paolo looked over again, through his lashes because his head was a little back. Then he turned away, lowering his head as he rubbed the side of his mouth. “No, I don’t think so,” he said, voice warm. “I—the customs officer, maybe. I only came in three nights ago.”

“You’re off the boat?” Zlatan asked. “I thought you said—”

“In Italy. My job was in Italy. I came here—I thought I was being transferred to head up the office here. A promotion.” The warmth disappeared from Paolo’s voice. “I came over for a visit, to see what it was like, before I would take the offer. I don’t know what customs might—”

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll take a look at it.” Zlatan reached over to touch Paolo’s shoulder and the other man jerked away from him. He dropped his hand to the gearshift. The car lurched as it went over a hole in the road and began to skew sideways; Zlatan pulled his other arm down the steering wheel, grabbed it and wrenched it back without looking away from Paolo.

The other man’s eyes flicked to Zlatan’s hand on the wheel. They widened a little, then moved slowly back to Zlatan’s face. Then Paolo dropped his head and touched his temple. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m still a little sore about it. What they did, that is. That’s a generous offer for you to make, and I appreciate it.”

“It’s not generous. I don’t want to deal with customs if I don’t have to, and if it’s as easy as Paolo Maldini, company manager, disappearing on vacation, then that’s great. That’s easier than finding a body to send back.” Zlatan turned back to the wheel, and straightened out the car again when he saw they were drifting off the road. They were far enough back that it was barely more than dirt and pebbles, hard on the shocks. “But it’s funny that they send you _out_ of Italy to get killed. I thought it worked the other way around. Never mind, we’ll get you some new papers.”

“How much is the rate for those these days?” Paolo asked after a while.

“We’ll talk about it over breakfast,” Zlatan told him.

* * *

At the gas station Zlatan gave Paolo a few bills to go and see about the barber’s and some coffee, and then slipped the attendant one to let him use the station’s phone. He called in and let them know his end was done, and he was taking the rest of the day off. Then he called Figo to have him get onto looking into Paolo’s case, if there was any.

When he got off the phone, the attendant was just hanging up the nozzle. Zlatan paid for the gas and was about to drive the car around the corner when the attendant told him Paolo had come back, and told him to tell Zlatan he was at the other end of town. So Zlatan drove down there to park.

It wasn’t a big town, but it was big enough for a one-block main street. The barbershop came first and Zlatan strolled by it, looking through the big glass window, before turning into the diner next to it. He ordered himself some toast and a black coffee, and was nibbling away it when Paolo slipped onto the stool by him. The weak morning light smoothed over the slight redness of Paolo’s freshly-shaven face.

“A coffee,” Paolo said when the waitress came by. She took note of his looks and pressed him till he agreed to try the waffles as well, with a helpless glance towards Zlatan that made Zlatan hide a grin in his coffee.

They and an old, half-awake geezer at the other end of the bar were the only ones in the diner. After she’d brought Paolo his food, the waitress withdrew to the kitchen and so it was quiet. Zlatan finished his toast and without his crunching, it was even quieter as he looked over Paolo, at the damp, neat curls arranged around the man’s face. Shampoo only, no haircut.

“I called somebody I know with the cops. He says he hasn’t heard about anybody like you going missing, but it’s a big city. He’ll get back to me later,” Zlatan said. “How’re the waffles?”

Paolo was cutting into the last of his, having eaten the first two quietly but with some speed. He paused, then put down his knife and picked up his coffee. He drank some of that before he answered. “How much is this?”

“I don’t know yet. I don’t know what it’ll take.” The coffee was okay, enough to help Zlatan through the rest of the drive but not good enough for him to finish his cup. He pushed away the mug and began to figure out the tip. “I thought you didn’t have any money.”

“I don’t,” Paolo said, a little hard. Then he put down his fork too. “I’m done, if you want to go now.”

“Okay.” Zlatan tossed the money down on the counter as he got off his stool. “You always like this in the morning?”

He walked out and Paolo walked out with him, without answering.

* * *

Once the car had come to a stop, Paolo started to ask Zlatan something, but Zlatan was already opening the door on his side. He swung out and kicked the door shut behind him, then went around to the back and opened up the boot. The false bottom gave him some trouble and finally he had to brace his foot against the bumper to get it up. By then Paolo had wandered back to look, and he stood silently by while Zlatan lifted the rifle out of the boot and loaded it.

Zlatan raised his head, the rifle loosely in his hands, and Paolo sighed. “This is nicer than that kitchen, at least,” he said to Zlatan.

For a moment Zlatan didn’t understand. Then he did, and he laughed to cover how irritated he was. “I’m not going to kill you. Why would I do it now and out here? That waitress saw you, the barber saw you with me, the gas man…I should’ve done it back at the other place.”

“I know,” Paolo said sharply. He put his hand against one of the tail-lights and pressed down on it till his knuckles whitened.

“I’m beginning to think you woke up and decided you hated me after all,” Zlatan said. He slapped shut the boot and took a step to the left, to Paolo’s side, and then spun on his heel so they were looking in the same direction. Then he held out the rifle to Paolo. “What happened to wanting me to fuck you again?”

Paolo opened his mouth, inhaled back whatever he was going to say, and then slowly shut it. He looked at the rifle, then at Zlatan. Then he looked at the rifle again, really looking at it, his eyes running down its details. He put out one hand and wrapped it around the muzzle, and when Zlatan let go of it, he caught the dropping stock in his other hand.

“Nobody lives around here for miles.” It _was_ a nice little spot, if you liked the woods. The trees started barely fifty yards off, and were thick as bullets packed into a box. “You see that pine tree? With the one branch sticking out on the left?”

Instead of answering, Paolo hefted the rifle. It seemed like he was only getting a feel for its weight, but then the crack of the shot made Zlatan flinch. Something small and brown dropped from the tree, a pinecone, and a flock of birds immediately took off. Paolo recocked the rifle and shot twice more in quick succession. Two dark shapes fell out of the sky.

“Ducks,” he said. He lowered the rifle, looking at it. Then he tilted it in his hands to offer it to Zlatan. “You want them for dinner?”

“You cook?” Zlatan asked, blinking.

Paolo shrugged. “A little. I try not to waste what I kill.”

“That’s a pretty good way of thinking.” Zlatan took back the rifle and made sure its barrel was empty. He started to put it down, but then stopped and caught Paolo, pulling him back as the other man tried to walk away. “Wait a minute.”

“Then you don’t want…oh.” For a moment after Zlatan put the pistol in his hand, Paolo just let it lie there with his fingers stretched out. Then he slowly curled them around it, a little awkwardly.

“Wait a moment.” Zlatan opened the boot and put the rifle away again. Then he went to Paolo’s right and put his hands over Paolo’s hands on the gun, adjusting the man’s grip. Once that was set, he ran his hands back up Paolo’s arms—Paolo looked quickly at him—and under them, pushing up the elbows till Paolo had the gun straight out ahead of him. Then he stepped back. “That pine tree’s too far. Try the stump there.”

Paolo glanced at him again, then at the stump. This time Paolo took a deep, fast breath before he pulled the trigger. A puff of dirt kicked up a few inches before the stump. The recoil made Paolo stumble to the side and he cursed, taking one hand off the gun to put on his thigh. He braced himself, head hanging down over the gun.

“That was okay,” Zlatan said. “You’d still have hit something. But you’re too stiff. It doesn’t kick half as much as a rifle.”

“Sorry,” Paolo muttered. He breathed a few times and lifted his head a little, peering at the stump through a few straggling locks. Then he brushed those out of the way and straightened up, and looked at the stump again. He fumbled a bit with the gun but managed to advance the barrel to the next shot, then lifted the pistol and took aim.

He grazed the top of the stump, then plugged it in the middle. Then he stepped back and let the pistol drop. He was breathing a little fast and he gazed out at the stump with a mixture of surprise and pride and a third one that was hard to read. Maybe sadness.

“You can work on it later. I don’t want to waste the bullets now.” Zlatan put his hand on Paolo’s arm and Paolo turned to look over his shoulder. Then he flipped the gun and gave it to Zlatan butt-first, without any hesitation. “You don’t have a lot to work on, though.”

“You don’t think so?” Paolo said. He turned and took Zlatan by the elbow, staring up at Zlatan. It wasn’t his gun skills he was asking about. Then he gave himself a hard shake. He let go of Zlatan and the planes of his face smoothed out. “Is this how I’m paying you?”

When Zlatan laughed, Paolo grimaced. Then he started to turn away, but Zlatan grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back. “Are you serious?” Zlatan said. “That’s a tree, not a person. You think I’m going to let you just go and try something yourself? Like I said, you need to work on it. This isn’t a bunch of fun. This is what I do for a living.”

Paolo twisted himself free and stood back, eyes snapping. Then he breathed in, but Zlatan had already turned from him. Zlatan put away the gun and went to get the ducks. He brought them back and wrapped them in some old newspapers, and put them in the boot. Then he got into the car and was reaching for the keys when the other door opened. He pulled away his hand and sat back, and watched Paolo get slowly into the car.

“I thought your countrymen liked shotguns,” Zlatan said as he pulled back onto the road. “What do they call them, _lupara_?”

“That’s in Sicily. I’m from the north, Milan.” Paolo slouched a little in his seat, letting his head roll against the back. His eyes closed. “But shotguns are common everywhere, yes.”

“Then the rifle?”

“I was from a rich family,” Paolo said, opening his eyes. He rubbed at one.

Zlatan checked his watch. They would be a little later than planned, but not so much that he needed to call about it. “I wasn’t. I’m just good at it. Give me a gun, any kind, and I’ll figure it out.”

“You don’t have fun with that?” Paolo asked, turning his head. His eyes looked red and the flesh around them was swollen. He had slept last night, but maybe not the night before.

“It can be. But I don’t do it for fun. That just comes along sometimes,” Zlatan said. He glanced into the backseat. Back there were some boxes, but they could go on the floor. “You want to lie down? It’s still a couple hours’ drive.”

Paolo considered the idea, then began to lean against his door. Then he stopped and looked out the windshield. He brushed one hand over his hair and pushed himself off the door, and laid down across the front seat, with his head bumping up against Zlatan’s hip. He shifted his hips a few times, then reached up and loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt-collar.

“I can stop so you can go in the back,” Zlatan said after a moment.

Paolo twisted slightly to look up at Zlatan. Then he settled back, his eyes closing. He let his right arm stick off the seat so its hand rested against the gear-shift. “No, this is fine.”

They went on for about a mile and then Paolo sat up. He pulled off his coat and tossed it over his hips, and laid down again. This time he put his head on Zlatan’s thigh. His hair looked soft and bright against the dark of Zlatan’s coat, the plain white of Paolo’s shirt.

“Is this fun?” he asked, eyes closed.

“It’s about as much fun as I’ve ever gotten out of one of these trips,” Zlatan answered honestly. He had some trouble steering around potholes for the next few minutes. “It gets boring, if you can believe that. You work at it and work at it, and then you get bored. You never get to talk to anyone.”

“Well, because you kill them, don’t you?”

“I didn’t kill you.” Zlatan looked down and Paolo cracked open an eye. Then Zlatan laughed, half under his breath. He returned his attention to the road, but at the next bump he put down his hand. It touched silky hair and he stroked at that before sliding his hand further down, so he could cup it over the round of Paolo’s shoulder. “You think they’d try and kill you again, if they figure out you’re still alive?”

The shoulder rolled jerkily under Zlatan’s hand. A soft tapping started up, and it took a moment for Zlatan to realize it was Paolo hitting his hand against the gear-shift. He glanced down again and Paolo had his eyes open but narrowed, was chewing on his lip. Then he let his lip turn out and pushed the side of his face into Zlatan’s leg.

“Probably. I think they know the first time wouldn’t be enough to keep me from doing something,” Paolo eventually said. He rolled his eyes up. “Are you going to look at that too?”

“You’re not paying me,” Zlatan said.

Paolo didn’t seem surprised by the answer, or much disturbed by it. He nodded and closed his eyes, unresisting under Zlatan’s hand. After a few more minutes, Zlatan took it off him and put it back on the wheel.

* * *

Once they got into town, Zlatan dropped Paolo off at his rooms and then went to make a couple of visits. Henrik hadn’t gotten in yet, but that wasn’t surprising, with the way he drove. Buffon wasted a few minutes remarking pointlessly on Zlatan’s bad timing before he got around to updating Zlatan on the news. Granted, it sounded like Zlatan should’ve stayed a little longer in the country, but that wasn’t Zlatan’s fault. He hadn’t been the idiot stupid enough to try stiffing them, and then to start up a rival operation when they objected.

Figo was more helpful. “No, there’s no sign that Maldini ever came into the country. Seems like they took care of that already, and it doesn’t look like they’re trying to check on whether he’s dead. They’re busy with their dead.”

“You know why they wanted to knock him off?” Zlatan asked.

The other man didn’t answer him, but just stared at Zlatan’s feet. After a moment, Zlatan rolled his eyes and took them off Figo’s desk, and Figo cleared his throat. “I haven’t even had a day, Zlatan, and most of the principals are still in Italy. All I’ve got is what Pep thinks.”

“You’ve gone to war on Pep’s word before,” Zlatan pointed out.

A tiny, indulgent smile flashed over Figo’s face. Then he pulled a long face again and sat up, folding his hands together on the desk. “Pep thinks they had Maldini as a front, because he’s well-known for his integrity. But he kept looking into things, and cramping their style too much, so finally they decided they’d rather get rid of him. They tried to get him to take a payment and quit, but he got suspicious and looked even harder. And so…”

“Some retirement plan they’ve got.” Then there was a knock at the door and Zlatan stopped.

Quaresma poked his head in and told Figo that Nuno Gomes was in and wanted to see him or Rui, preferably Rui. Figo told Quaresma to stall, then rocked back in his chair with a disgusted look. “Try not to get into trouble for a few days, all right? Rui Costa and Pep are trying to take care of that damn mess, and I don’t need another one. Anyway, no, they didn’t exactly treat Maldini well. And he’s been with them since he was a teenager, and his father before that. Who’s probably grateful he’s not around to see this. He wasn’t a bad sort himself.”

“Thanks, Figo.” Zlatan started to get up, then stopped with his hand on the chair. “Is Paolo trouble?”

“Paolo?” Figo’s brows rose. He looked at Zlatan long enough to make Zlatan wish the man wasn’t so central to the rumor mill. Then he twisted his chair around and began shuffling papers. “Listen, I need you to take care of a small matter for me. But quietly, understand?”

“I know, don’t make things hard for the others. But if any of that mess comes my way, I’m not going to sit there and die,” Zlatan said.

After handing Zlatan a paper, Figo waved his hand for Zlatan to leave. “I never expect you to sit around and do anything, Ibra. Just be smart.”

“See you ‘round.” Zlatan glanced over the paper. It was type-written, only on one side, and only had a few lines. He memorized them and then rolled up the paper into a long, thin tube. On his way out he lighted the end with a match.

Zlatan found a trashcan in the hall and stood over it while the paper burned down. He watched Nuno Gomes storm into Figo’s office, then flicked off the last bit of the paper as the shouting started. He left to it ringing in his ears.

* * *

The rooms Zlatan had weren’t in the best location in town, but that was fine with him. He didn’t need to be seen all the time, and they were pretty good rooms. They took up half the floor—Henrik had the other suite—and had a good view at night. But still on the empty side, since Zlatan hadn’t been around enough for serious furniture shopping. Henrik kept bothering him about that, but it did make it easier to pick out new things when they showed up.

New black shoes, perfectly shined but conservative, lined up near the door. Too small for Zlatan. Lots of newspapers spread over the dining table and spilling onto the floor around it. He skimmed them, but nothing was clipped out or marked, so Zlatan proceeded to the bedroom. A couple of three-piece suits were laid out on the bed, with the pins from the tailor still in them. All in black except for the shirts. Different kinds of black, one solid and another pin-striped with dark grey, but still black.

“You dressing up for your own funeral?” Zlatan asked.

He turned around and Paolo shrugged. The other man was leaning in the bathroom doorway, wearing trousers but bare-chested and barefoot. He was in the middle of changing his bandages, and finished knotting one around his left wrist as he came into the room. “Henrik came by,” he said. He paused for comment, which Zlatan didn’t provide. “He told me how to have in a tailor. I thought I’d take care of that while you were gone.”

“On my account. I guess if you were going to, you’d better get the best.” Zlatan pulled at his tie, then slipped it over his head and dropped it on the bed by one of Paolo’s suits. Then he took off his coat and his suit-jacket, and tossed those onto a nearby chair. “So you and he had a chat, then.”

“He introduced himself, and explained a few things. He said you’d know what.” Paolo was watching Zlatan, keeping his distance. But his caution wasn’t tinged with much fear. He stepped backwards into the bathroom and got himself another strip of cotton, then wrapped up his right wrist. “He also wanted you to know you’ll have to see Guardiola if you want any help for the next few days. Something came up and he’s busy.”

For a moment Zlatan was annoyed about that, since he’d meant to go see Henrik about Figo’s little favor after checking up on Paolo. But then he shook his head—Henrik would have a good reason for being unavailable, and anyway, no point in fussing over an open-and-shut job. “Okay.”

The air felt dry, so Paolo hadn’t showered yet. Zlatan went into the bathroom and around Paolo, and scrubbed one hand through his hair, feeling how greasy it was. He grimaced and ran his hand under the tap, then took out his cuff-links and put those away. Then he laid his gun and a couple knives down by the sink. He sensed Paolo turning to look at them, but ignored the man in favor of balancing a hip against the sink and standing one-legged to get off his shoes and socks.

“Can I get some Italian papers sent up here?” Paolo asked.

“Sure. Ask at the front desk.” Zlatan kicked his shoes to the side and straightened up. He pulled his shirt-tails out. “But you can’t borrow my guns. I’ve got work and I need them.”

Paolo turned and put his hands on Zlatan’s chest, pushing Zlatan’s own hands out of the way. He ran his fingers up to Zlatan’s collar, looking at Zlatan, and then began to undo the buttons. “Why would I need to borrow them?”

“To walk into your old employer’s office and kill all of them?” Zlatan suggested.

The calm green of Paolo’s eyes flickered. His hands stilled. Then he shook his head and smiled, amused. His thumb slipped under Zlatan’s shirt as he undid the next button, and he leaned much closer than he had to in order to help Zlatan undress. “I don’t want to do that. I still care about it.”

“After they tried to kill you.” Zlatan let his arms hang by his sides. He watched Paolo work his way down Zlatan’s shirt, then occasionally taking a quick breath as Paolo’s fingers brushed at him, over the undershirt Zlatan wore.

After the last button, Paolo flipped the shirt’s halves apart. He let go of them and lifted his hands, taking hold of the shirt again near the collar. “It didn’t try to kill me. Some people in it did. I’m angry at them, I’ll admit, but that doesn’t necessarily mean I have to kill them,” he said, pulling Zlatan’s shirt off. “Or hurt anyone else.”

The motion brought him right up to Zlatan, so the heat of his body swept through the thin cotton of Zlatan’s undershirt. He let the shirt fall behind Zlatan and put his hands on Zlatan’s back, and tipped up his head, his lips slightly parted. His gaze was steady and relaxed, and more challenging that way than a roomful of boasters.

Zlatan put one hand on Paolo’s waist, holding the other man still. He started to ask, but then thought the better of it. He looked away and happened to glimpse the mirror, and the reflection of Paolo’s back with its bruises. One hand still on Paolo’s waist, Zlatan lifted his other one and traced the outline of one bruise, then twisted his head around and pressed his mouth sideways to Paolo’s temple as the other man shivered.

“So what are you going to do with a shipping company?” Zlatan whispered. “All right, you don’t feel like wiping it out, but do you really want to do that work anymore? I don’t think so.”

Paolo stiffened and pulled away. He dropped his hands from Zlatan’s back and brought them around to push Zlatan back, then turned towards the door. “I don’t think you know—”

Zlatan shoved hard at Paolo’s waist, spinning him further so Paolo’s back was to him. Then he grabbed the man’s elbows and pulled Paolo flush against him. The other man was struggling and for a few seconds Zlatan let him, deliberately allowing his grip to loosen. Then he pushed Paolo forward into the wall and pressed up behind him, pinning them in place. He ran his hands roughly down Paolo’s sides from ribs to thigh, and then jerked them up to slap Paolo’s arms against the wall. Paolo hissed and bucked viciously, then slammed back his head.

He missed Zlatan’s face. Zlatan went around the other side and bit down hard on Paolo’s neck, where it joined the shoulder; Paolo hissed again, more raggedly, and twisted so the edge of his hip ground up and down Zlatan’s leg. It could’ve been resisting or could’ve been inviting. Zlatan sucked at Paolo’s neck, then slid down further and raked his teeth over the line of Paolo’s shoulderblade. This time Paolo’s shudder wasn’t anything but pleasurable.

“I know you want me to fuck you right now,” Zlatan said. He licked at some sweat running over Paolo’s shoulder, then dragged his tongue across Paolo’s back. A muscle jumped right into the middle of it and he stopped there, laving along it while Paolo gasped. “You like this before, or was it one of those—you had no reason to?”

Paolo cursed at him in Italian, suddenly guttural and vulgar, and Zlatan blinked. Then laughed as he nuzzled up the groove of Paolo’s spine to nibble around the bandage on Paolo’s neck. He squeezed his hands up Paolo’s arms and felt Paolo’s fingers bend back to brush at them before he let go. Zlatan stepped back to take off his belt and Paolo twisted around. He was breathing hard, a long straggle of hair plastered across his brow, the hollows of his cheeks flushed deep red. He stood there against the wall, staring at Zlatan. His chin lifted and his tongue flicked between his teeth before he spoke. “Give me that.”

He gestured at Zlatan’s belt, and when Zlatan didn’t move, impatiently seized the buckle. In a few twists of the hand, Paolo had it undone and he yanked it out so that its edge burned across Zlatan’s thumb. Paolo fell back against the wall, still looking at Zlatan. He slapped the belt over his left arm, then jerked his chin at Zlatan.

“You said you liked that.” He flipped the end at Zlatan. “Well?”

Zlatan grinned and stepped forward. Paolo lifted his arm with the belt towards Zlatan and Zlatan bent over it to kiss the man, and when Paolo started in surprise, Zlatan grabbed the belt’s dangling ends. He used it to pull back Paolo’s arm, then pushed Paolo’s other one back as well as Paolo recovered, pressed up hard against Zlatan. It was hard to work without being able to see, but Zlatan got the belt’s end through one end of the buckle. He yanked on it, enough for Paolo’s hands to disappear behind him, and then shoved it through the buckle’s other end. He didn’t bother about getting the tongue through the belt-holes.

Paolo backed up against the wall and Zlatan followed him, their bodies joined at the mouth. Then shoulder to knee as Zlatan pinned Paolo again and Paolo was cooperating this time. He lifted his hips for Zlatan to get his trousers down, then hissed in pain as Zlatan pulled off his mouth. Then he exclaimed, angry and wanting, as Zlatan dropped onto his knees. Zlatan looked up Paolo’s body, across the flat stomach and smooth-planed chest, up the throat convulsing with each breath, to the eyes. He licked at the prick dangling by his face, flicking his tongue over its underside, and Paolo tried to shove it into his mouth. Zlatan pushed the man’s hips back and then swallowed Paolo’s cock, and kept swallowing till Paolo half-fell over him.

He listened to Paolo’s breathing. Gasps to broken breaths to long, deep ones. Then Zlatan pushed the man back against the wall. He heard something hit the floor and looked down to see the belt, then looked up as Paolo brought his arms round to massage them.

“You alive yet?” Zlatan asked.

Paolo’s eyes flared, burned like focused sunlight and then—didn’t cool. But they weren’t so angry. He opened his mouth, worked it a few times and then suddenly smiled. The way his hips and shoulders moved when he talked was like the way a silk dress would flutter around a woman. “I happen to like black. It’s a good color, not just for funerals.”

“You look good in it.” Zlatan pushed himself back on his heels and grimaced as his own prick shifted uncomfortably. He reached back and grabbed the sink with one hand, and as he pulled himself up, yanked open his trousers. Then he got some lotion onto his fingers and wrapped them around his prick, working the swelling flesh. “But won’t it get a little boring? It—look, I need…a shower and a nap. I’ve got work tonight.”

Undeterred, Paolo pushed Zlatan’s hand back to the sink as he stepped between Zlatan’s legs. He rubbed his thigh against Zlatan’s prick, lazily kissing his way up the side of Zlatan’s face, and when Zlatan grabbed his hips, Paolo merely leaned forward, squeezing Zlatan’s prick between himself and Zlatan’s leg so Zlatan exhaled very slowly.

“I don’t think it’ll be boring,” Paolo said. He let Zlatan kiss him, then pushed a hand between them and teased at the head of Zlatan’s cock. “I need a shower now too. I’ll help you with that.”

“Help?” Zlatan rasped.

Paolo arched a brow and Zlatan couldn’t help it, he bit at it, and Paolo pushed his head into it and put his arms around Zlatan’s neck. Zlatan flexed his hands on Paolo’s hips a few times, then pushed them over and towards the shower.

* * *

“This one’s pretty nasty. You could’ve told me.” Zlatan dabbed at the cut on Paolo’s back, then sat back to get the bottle from the bedside table. He wetted a fresh pad of cotton as Paolo slowly breathed against the liniment’s burn. “Maybe I should get in a doctor to look at it.”

No answer. When Zlatan looked over, he found Paolo slumped into the pillow, the sag of his back speaking eloquently enough. There were only a few more bruises and Zlatan hurried over them, then got up to throw away the dirty pads. He stopped when the bed creaked, then went to get the wastebasket as Paolo carefully pulled himself up. The other man pulled on a fresh shirt and began to button it up.

“We need to wake up at seven,” Zlatan said. “Meet up with Guardiola’s man at seven-thirty, get there by quarter till. It should be over at nine, and then we can get dinner.”

“You want me to come with you?” Paolo asked after a moment. He finished buttoning up his shirt and then pulled himself up to the headboard, leaning against it as Zlatan went around the room. “I thought you said I didn’t know what I was doing.”

Zlatan snorted and threw himself down on the other side of the bed, then rolled over to look at Paolo. “You need to listen better. I didn’t say that, I said you needed to work on things. You might as well start now, if you’re going to be ordering in Italian newspapers and that sort of thing.”

Then he let his head fall back into the pillow and listened to the sound of Paolo thinking. The occasional creak of the bed as the other man shifted around. Steady, regular breathing.

“What do you know about shipping?” Paolo asked.

“Not a lot. Seems like a mess, what with insurance and customs and then the unions over here, those longshoremen bastards. Then you’ve got the rate-setting problems. And if you smuggle, that’s a whole other barrel of trouble.”

Paolo touched Zlatan’s hair, a little above the left ear. He pushed the strands around a bit, then took away his hand. “That’s not a lot?”

“’s not like I’ve studied details,” Zlatan said. “Why, I need to?”

“You can if you want,” Paolo said slowly. “It’ll give us something to talk about. Something else. If you’d like.”

“Right now I’m going to sleep, is what I’d like.” Zlatan rolled the other way.

The bed dipped behind him. He felt something on his shoulder and he turned onto his back just as Paolo was moving away. Paolo stopped and looked at him, and was still looking at him when Zlatan closed his eyes. After a moment, Zlatan threw his arm, the one closest to Paolo, over his head. The pillow under it shifted, then sank as Paolo got down beside Zlatan, facing him, his breath coasting over Zlatan’s bicep. He put his arm by Zlatan, then pushed it over Zlatan’s chest. Then he stopped moving around, and Zlatan could get to sleep.

* * *

It wasn’t a complicated job and if Zlatan had had a little more notice, and didn’t need to think about where Paolo would be during it, he could’ve done it by himself. He would’ve rather done it that way. And even though he trusted Guardiola not to lend an incompetent, Zlatan still wasn’t thrilled with the man that showed up. He and Villa had had a few social run-ins before, but they’d never worked together. He did know people who had, and they hadn’t always been complimentary about the man.

“I’m not here to babysit,” Villa started off, nodding at Paolo.

Paolo stayed in his corner of the booth and sipped on his soda, gazing out the window. Occasionally he’d drag a fingertip up and down his straw.

“No, I just need you to cover the back for me. He’s coming at eight and they’ll sit down to dinner. Order a lot of wine, since he’s celebrating and all. We’ll come in through the kitchen. When he goes to take a piss, I’ll follow him in there and take care of him, and you just shoot the bodyguard if he notices anything wrong before I get out,” Zlatan said. He finished drawing the layout on his napkin, then flicked that round to show Villa. “No babysitting required.”

Villa took the napkin between his forefinger and thumb and looked at it, then at Paolo. Then he shrugged and sat up, stuffing the napkin in his pocket. “What if he doesn’t take a piss?”

“He’s got a weak bladder. Just went in to see the doctor about it, and he’s supposed to be having surgery next month.” Zlatan picked up his cup, swirled around the dregs of his coffee and then downed it. Then he shoved the mug over to the side and signaled for the check.

“But what if he doesn’t?” Villa persisted.

“Then we figure out some other way. He’s not leaving the place alive,” Zlatan said. He sorted out his and Paolo’s part of the bill, then got up.

Villa was slower about it and let Paolo get between him and Zlatan. Paolo worked his way between the crowded stools of the sofa fountain like he was dancing. His last turn took him right up against Zlatan, who caught his back against the palm of one hand, then helped steer him through the back door.

“You don’t like him,” Paolo noted quietly.

“He thinks he’s better than me.” Zlatan went out into the alley behind the place and paused, grimacing as the night air dragged icily over his face. It’d chilled a lot in the last hour. “Guardiola likes him but he hasn’t been with us half as long.”

Paolo glanced over his shoulder, then moved aside to make way for Villa. Then he stood back, turning up his coat-collar as Villa made a point of pacing out the alley. “Is he any good?”

“If he wasn’t, Guardiola would’ve shot him by now,” Zlatan admitted. He looked at Paolo, then grinned and dipped his head. Hunching his shoulders broke the wind a little, and kept the match from going out as Zlatan got himself a cigarette. He held it in his mouth while he put away the cigarette case and matches, then took it out as he turned back to Paolo. “You want to sit in the car?”

The other man looked at the cigarette instead of at Zlatan. He lifted his hand towards the tip, curling his fingers so they made a cage. His hand kept moving forward and Zlatan was just pulling the smoking tip away to keep from burning him when Paolo abruptly turned his hand. He plucked it from Zlatan and twisted it in his fingers so the smoke rising from it corkscrewed.

“Can I go in the kitchen? It’d be warmer,” Paolo said. He stabbed out the cigarette against the wall.

Zlatan pulled his watch out of his pocket and looked at it, then nodded diffidently as he started forward. He tapped Villa on the back as he passed the other man; behind him he could hear Paolo’s slow following steps. Villa glanced over his shoulder, then snorted and stalked quickly forward so he got to the restaurant’s door first. It was pointless since Zlatan was the one who knew the cooks, and had to do the knocking and the asking.

Once they were let in, Zlatan and Villa headed immediately up to the doors into the dining room. The restaurant was closed up except for the one table, so there was only one waiter and then two cooks in the back. The waiter had just finished passing the menus round and was probably taking the wine order.

“Two guards?” Villa said.

“No, the one with the diamond stickpin’s the client. You don’t shoot him.” Zlatan braced his shoulder against the wall and looked back down the kitchen. He spotted Paolo peering into one of the pots, in amiable conversation with the cook tending to it. The new suit looked better on him than the one that Henrik had brought, with sleeker lines that reminded Zlatan of how he’d run his hand down Paolo’s hip a few hours ago. “I can’t believe you don’t know who he is.”

Villa ground his teeth a little, and stared pointedly out the round window of the door. “I’ve been upstate for the past three months, cleaning up the border. He’s new.”

“Not that much. He’s new to being a big shot, but he’s been around for a while. But maybe not in your neighborhood,” Zlatan said, smiling at Villa.

The other man shut up his mouth tight and pulled at his coat, then adjusted the angle of his hat on his head. He stopped answering Zlatan’s questions with anything but grunts. Outside the waiter brought the table a couple bottles of wine, took the food order. When he came in to relay that to the kitchen, he jerked his chin at Zlatan and Zlatan patted him on the side, slipping a folded wad of bills into his pocket.

The meal progressed. Villa and Zlatan changed positions a few times to keep their feet from falling asleep. Finally they saw one of the men push back from the table and excuse himself.

It was about time. Zlatan rolled himself off the wall and headed down the side of the kitchen, where there was another door that opened into the hallway to the washrooms. He put on some gloves and took out his gun, clicking off the safety. Then he turned and pushed open the door, and something gleamed out of place as it swung into the hall.

Zlatan threw himself back into the kitchen, up against the wall, and just missed taking the spray of bullets that slammed the door back into its frame. He shoved his arms up over his face to keep off the flying splinters. “Villa!”

More shooting was coming from the other end of the kitchen: a pistol and another tommygun. Villa was busy. Then something cracked thunderously and Zlatan dropped his arms in time to see the door by him fall off the top hinge. He scrambled for a nearby counter just as the man outside jumped over the broken door, still waving that tommygun around. The bullets missed him again, but Zlatan had to keep running to stay covered; the counter was too long and he heard the man round the corner before he’d reached the other one. He swore and spun, praying that he’d be able to shoot fast enough.

He wasn’t: his shots went wide into the counter. But the other man missed again, his arms flailing wildly as he slid towards Zlatan, slipping on some puddle on the floor. Then he caught himself against the counter and the maddened whites of his eyes rolled towards Zlatan just as something hit him in the head. It knocked him off-center and gave Zlatan time to yank himself to the safe side of the counter, re-aim and shoot the man’s gun-arm.

The tommygun dropped out of sight. Zlatan slapped his hand on the counter and leaped onto it, ready to finish off the man, only to find that that wasn’t necessary. He crouched there and watched the body fall to the floor, then flop half-over as the impact knocked free the cleaver in the body’s head. Zlatan breathed in, then got off the counter and looked to his left. Paolo looked back, standing over the spilled pot of sauce, breathing hard. He flexed his hand, then looked at it as if he’d never seen it before.

“Well, they’re dead.” Villa snarled into view, his hat gone, his tie askew. He waved his gun-hand towards the dining room doors. “Is he?”

“Take a look for yourself,” Zlatan said. He put away his gun and went up to the edge of the puddle of sauce. “Take off your shoes.”

Paolo blinked, then slowly shook his head. He bent over and pulled free the laces of one shoe, then paused. Then he shook his head again, and got the other one done in half the time. He straightened up and gave Zlatan his hands. After some twisting, Paolo got his feet free enough to get up on his toes, and then he hopped up. Zlatan pulled up with it and then forward, swinging Paolo free of the sauce. Then he bent down and looked at the cuffs of Paolo’s trousers. One of them had some sauce on it, but not so much so that it couldn’t be tucked into Paolo’s sock, which Zlatan did.

Zlatan straightened up, then hissed at Villa. “What are you doing? Don’t call from here. Around the corner, there’s a bar. Do it from there.”

Villa looked like he wanted to object, but he didn’t say a word. He dropped the phone roughly into its cradle, then spun around and went out into the alley.

The two cooks and the waiter were cowering in the far corner of the kitchen. They flinched away when Zlatan looked at them, so for the moment Zlatan let them be and pulled Paolo towards the door. Paolo didn’t come as quickly as Zlatan would’ve liked and after a few steps, Zlatan stopped, stooped and slung the other man over his shoulder. Then he carried Paolo outside and down the alley to the car.

He put Paolo down there and Paolo grabbed his arm. “My shoes.”

“You can get another pair tomorrow morning,” Zlatan said. He tried to shake Paolo off, but the other man held on till Zlatan would look at him. Then Zlatan sighed and turned to open the door. “Don’t worry about them, Guardiola’ll take care of that. Villa’s calling for the police, to make sure we get our cops sent down. They’ll clean up.”

Paolo drew in his breath sharply, then nodded. He let go of Zlatan and got in the car, and by then Villa was coming around the corner. Zlatan swung himself behind the wheel and started the engine, so the car was rolling by the time Villa jumped onto the running board. He pulled himself into the backseat as they hit the road.

* * *

After that they had to go see Figo. He wasn’t happy at the late hour, and even less when he heard what’d happened, but then he ordered them dinner.

“You’ll have to stay here for at least tonight, till I get this sorted out,” he told Zlatan. “You might as well eat.”

“So it wasn’t that bad?” Zlatan served himself up some more paella, then followed Figo into his office. “When you’re done with that, let me know. I don’t like having that kind of nonsense pulled on me.”

Figo glanced up at Zlatan, an amused smile on his face. “It wasn’t nonsense. I think they were aiming to get you.” He pulled out his chair and sat in it, then picked up the phone. Then he looked at Zlatan again, and as tired as he was, he laughed. “Your ego fails you, for once. You’re good enough that it’d be the smart thing to do, Ibra.”

“Well, so let me know when I can be smart with them,” Zlatan said after a moment. He ate a forkful of rice and used his hip to push the door out of the way. “Thanks for dinner.”

“Still, you’re lucky there’s no documentation Maldini ever entered the country. Next time he’ll have his new papers, so he should wear some gloves,” Figo added off-handedly.

When Zlatan turned back, Figo was dialing a number on the phone and didn’t look up. Zlatan stood there and ate some more, and waited for Figo to finish that call. He coughed before the other man could start dialing a second number. “He wants to do shipping.”

“It’s a rich business. It’s what got us into this one.” Figo glanced at Zlatan, then pulled over a ledger and frowned at it. “Yes?”

“Thanks, Figo,” Zlatan said, leaving.

He went a few doors down the hall, then turned into an empty office. They’d taken out the desk but left a couch and a couple chairs, and against one wall were stacked some boxes. On the boxes was a plate with some food on it, and a bottle of beer that had barely been touched. Across the room, Paolo sat on the couch. He’d looked up when Zlatan had come in, but otherwise hadn’t moved.

“You aren’t hungry?” Zlatan asked, nodding at the plate on the boxes. He went over there and put his plate down, then had a swig of the beer. Then he came up to the couch and leaned against the end.

“No, I am. It’s surprising.” Paolo lifted his hands, then put them back on his knees. He smoothed his trousers. “It’s…”

Zlatan let the words die off. He watched Paolo watch the dust floating around in the room. “You having second thoughts?”

Paolo started, then looked up at Zlatan. “No,” he said. He put his hands down at his sides, then pushed himself off the couch. Then he started over to the boxes, but Zlatan put out an arm and he stopped. He looked at Zlatan, then turned and came up to put his hands on Zlatan’s shoulders, either to push or pull. “I don’t have second thoughts.”

“So you’ve said.” Zlatan lowered his arm and curled it around Paolo. He pulled the other man towards him and Paolo’s hands slid over his shoulders, then across his back. They hooked together as Zlatan fingered the left side of Paolo’s jaw; Paolo half-closed his eyes and turned his head into it. Then Zlatan touched a red spot on Paolo’s collar. He scraped at the sauce stain with his nail, then licked at his nail as Paolo watched him. “Hmm. You know, I like the black and white, but maybe you could add a little color in there. What’s wrong with red?”

“Red?” Paolo repeated. He clenched his hands and Zlatan felt it against his back. “Red. Red and black and white, those are the colors of my old—”

“Well, you said you still care about it, don’t you?”

After a moment, Paolo unclasped his hands and pulled them down between him and Zlatan. He ran his finger around the top button of Zlatan’s shirt. “Why red? Don’t you see plenty of it with your work?”

“I wouldn’t do it if I hated it. It’s just it’s a job sometimes. That’s the difference between it and fun,” Zlatan said.

“Am I fun?” Paolo asked abruptly, looking up at Zlatan. His fingers pressed into Zlatan’s collar, pushing at the hollow between the two wings of Zlatan’s collarbone. His eyes moved over Zlatan’s face left to right, then up and down as Zlatan reached up and idly ran a nail down one curving eyebrow. “I can’t hire you. Are you going to help me?”

Zlatan chuckled, then pulled Paolo up against him as the other man stiffened. He dug around in his pocket, then took out a little cloth bag and dropped it into Paolo’s hand. “I’m asking about the red because I don’t have another ring,” he said. “Just this one. And I like the stone in it.”

By then Paolo had already gotten his fingers into the drawstring. He paused and looked up when Zlatan was done talking. Then he twisted, getting himself some space, and he opened the bag to pull it out. The ruby was redder than the sauce on his collar. “You’re quick,” he said neutrally, looking at it.

“It’s just mine. We don’t do a silly thing like rings—it’d be too easy for other people to figure out who’s with us and who isn’t.” Zlatan put his hands on Paolo’s hips. “I got it off my first one.”

“I don’t think that’s silly.” Paolo twisted the ring in his fingers like he’d twisted the cigarette in the alley earlier. Then he turned and leaned his right shoulder against Zlatan’s chest, still gazing at the ring. The planes of his face were calm, and there wasn’t any jerk in his movements when he slid it onto the fourth finger of his left hand, completely covering that lighter strip of skin.

Zlatan breathed out, then realized he hadn’t done that in a while. He glanced over his shoulder, then sat down on the couch arm, pulling Paolo with him. “I should pick up something besides my job. I like it but I know all about it now. I don’t know much about shipping.”

“I don’t know much about what you do,” Paolo replied. He was unsteady for a moment, but then he braced his elbow on Zlatan’s shoulder and settled himself between Zlatan’s legs. He looked at Zlatan. “We’ll work on it.”

Zlatan grinned. “Yeah. We will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Partly inspired by Jean-Pierre Melville's crime/noir films like _Le Cercle Rouge_.


	2. Number One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gianluigi takes deliveries, and one night he takes an odd one.

Once the door had shut behind Zlatan, Gianluigi pulled his coat off the wall and threw it over his shoulders. His phone rang as he reached for the door-knob and he stopped, then sighed and went back to answer it. “No,” he said to the first question. He noticed his coat-collar was flipped the wrong way and fixed that. “Yes. No. Ten tomorrow night at the earliest, and that’s if you’re not late as usual. No, I sprang from my mother’s womb this sarcastic. Goodbye, Chiellini.”

He put down the phone and went out of the office. As he was putting the key in the lock, Gianluigi heard the phone ring again. He paused, then shook his head and twisted the key. The phone kept ringing as Gianluigi proceeded down the hall to the staircase at the end. He slipped through the door and rattled down two flights to the garage on the first floor, arriving just as a car was pulling into the place. It swerved to his left and slowly pulled up against the far wall, giving Gianluigi time to run his eye over the lines of it, the action of the tires. They rolled smoothly enough. Engine sounded a little rough, but not unreasonably so. It was a used car.

“This one’s for Larsson?” Camoranesi wandered up, wringing an oily rag between his hands. He threw it over one shoulder and looked at Gianluigi. “For tomorrow?”

“Possibly. Those hubcaps have to go. Too flashy,” Gianluigi observed. It had a good-sized boot and the driver’s door swung soundlessly as Tiago got out of the car. Wide running boards, not much chrome besides the hubcaps. “Guardiola wants something for one of his men too.”

“I’ve got a line on a car coming in a little later,” Camoranesi said. He pushed up his left sleeve past his elbow, rolling the edge so it’d stay in place. His fingers left dark streaks over the white cloth. “The green Ford’s done. I’ve got to go that way anyway, so I can drive it out if Fabio doesn’t get back in time.”

Gianluigi nodded in thanks and walked forward to meet Tiago. The other man offered him the car’s papers and he glanced them over before giving them back; they were likely fake, and would be faked again before they were through with the car, so they weren’t of much use. Instead Gianluigi stepped around Tiago and ducked into the open driver’s door, using his eyes and nose. He put his hands in his pockets, pulled out a pair of white gloves, and put them on before running his fingers over the wheel, the seats and the gear-shift.

“I went over the bridge and around the block a few times. It handles fine on city roads,” Tiago said. “A little sticky on turns, but the acceleration’s smooth as butter. The upholstering’s pretty nice too.”

“I’m sure you’ll be able to admire that even better when we’re ripping it out during cleaning,” Gianluigi dryly replied. He pulled himself out of the car and walked past Tiago’s offended face to check the boot. “Does it still have a spare tire?”

Tiago came after Gianluigi so hurriedly that his shoe slipped on the concrete. He had to catch himself against the car, with his hand coming down on the trunk just as Gianluigi had twisted the latch. He winced at the hollow clang his hand made; Gianluigi let go of the latch and slowly straightened up.

“It’s fi—I mean, they said so.” After a look at the car, Tiago pushed himself off it onto his own feet. He rubbed his hand over his hip, his brow furrowing and his mouth twisting up. “I didn’t look.”

“You paid for it and you didn’t look?” Gianluigi said.

“Even if it was missing, I’d have had to pay anyway. It’s from Mourinho and it would’ve looked bad if we’d rejected it,” Tiago pointed out. It was a justifiable point, delivered with a slight whine to his voice.

Mourinho, unfortunately, was beyond Gianluigi’s control, and so were any so-called bargains he offered. But the rest of the car did look fine, so if it was only a spare tire they’d have to put in, it wouldn’t be too much to swallow. Gianluigi reached for the latch again and turned it, only to have the trunk lid jerk uselessly in his hand. He looked at it, then looked at Tiago, who hastily fumbled out a ring of keys. The other man selected one and was holding it out when something thumped softly inside the trunk.

Tiago’s eyes widened, but his one hand slapped the keys into Gianluigi’s palm while his other went into his coat. He pulled out a pistol as Gianluigi stepped well back from the car. Then they both turned and looked at the trunk.

Camoranesi called from across the garage and Gianluigi flipped his hand up over his shoulder, waving off the help. He studied the outline of the trunk, noting how the slot for the key was positioned dead-center at the top. Then he walked around to the right and leaned over the car. He put in the key, keeping most of his body away from the trunk, twisted it and flicked his wrist so the lid would fall down of its own accord. As it started to open, he jerked back his arm and Tiago moved in, shoving the muzzle of his gun past the lid.

The lid clanged down. Tiago’s shoulders tensed and he breathed in sharply, then out more slowly. He looked in and frowned. Gianluigi stepped back up to the car and took his own look.

Male, eyes closed, no bloodstains or smell of blood. He moved his arm and hit the side of the trunk, then grimaced without opening his eyes. He wasn’t dead but Gianluigi doubted that sleep was what was closing his eyes.

“I didn’t know,” Tiago said. “I’ll go call José.”

“Wait a moment.” Gianluigi went over to one of the rolling carts that were scattered about the room. He pulled out a drawer and picked out some chains and padlocks from it, then came back to the car. “Now go call him.”

Camoranesi walked up as Tiago ran off. He looked inside, raised his eyebrows and then put out his hand as Gianluigi stretched out one of the chains. He took one end and then bent into the trunk, grabbing one of the man’s arms. When he pulled at it, the man rolled over and his eyes fluttered open so they could see how they were rolling back into his head. His nose and mouth were smeared with something whitish; Gianluigi stripped off one glove and touched it, then grimaced and wiped his fingers off on the side of the car. It was spit.

“They shot him up with something, I think,” Camoranesi said. “Well.”

“Tiago can drive the Ford out. When Fabio gets back, I’ll need him here.” Gianluigi pulled off his other glove and threw those to the side, then got hold of the man’s other arm. “Damn it. It’s about all Tiago can do.”

“You recognize him?” Camoranesi asked, surprised.

They got the man into a sitting position, then leaned him against the edge of the trunk while Camoranesi wrapped the chains around his wrists. He had long, stringy blond-brown hair and pale skin. His suit was made of top-notch material, but it bunched awkwardly around his shoulders, and as his head lolled, Gianluigi could see that the collar of his shirt wasn’t set properly.

“No.” Gianluigi put his hands under the man’s arms and hauled him halfway out of the car. He stopped and let Camoranesi get another chain around the ankles, then stooped and got the man over one shoulder. “Forget about the other cars. Call Del Piero, tell him to get me two others to work on them and start breaking down this one.”

* * *

“Some kind of sedative. Right now, anyway. He has old needle marks on one of his arms, too,” Gianluigi said. He glanced at the doctor’s report again, then offered the sheet to Figo. When the other man took it, Gianluigi dropped back behind his desk and picked up a pen. He put the tip to one of the ledgers on the desk and was writing a nine when his phone rang. After a moment, he flipped the pen around and put out his hand to pick up the phone. “No identification on him, nothing in his pockets, but his shoes and clothes were made in the high street here. Under his shirt he had on a gold necklace with a cross on it that’s in an odd design.”

Figo nodded absently as he read through the doctor’s report. He started to ask a question, but then saw Gianluigi was answering the phone and let it go till the call was over. Then he snapped the report at Gianluigi. “Is he awake yet?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Gianluigi put the phone back in its cradle and scribbled a note on a scrap of paper, then stuck that in the ledger in which he’d been working. He finished writing the nine and then added a two. “He can talk in Italian, but it doesn’t make any sense. He’s still groggy. Mauro?”

The other man paused, then ducked his head as he came into the office. “Sorry, it’s just I finally got hold of someone.”

“Well, go ahead with the interruption,” Figo said.

Camoranesi still hesitated, with a wary look at Gianluigi. He’d changed into a clean shirt but hadn’t tucked in the tails, and he pulled at one as he spoke. “Mourinho’s not there anymore.”

“I thought you said you got hold of—no, you said ‘someone.’” Gianluigi straightened up and pulled one hand through his hair. “Is he dead?”

“No, but he’s gone and Deco’s gone, and the only one I could get was Carvalho, and he was in a hurry. There’s been some kind of split, some fight high up and Mourinho left because of it. They’re in a mess over there trying to figure it out too, if that’s any help,” Camoranesi said apologetically. He glanced over his shoulder, saw that the door was still open and nudged it shut with his foot. “Carvalho said Mourinho filled all his outstanding contracts before he went.”

“I didn’t contract for someone in the boot,” Gianluigi said.

Figo snorted, and when Gianluigi looked at him, failed to apologize. He folded the doctor’s report in half lengthwise, using his thumbnail to crease it. “He must have irritated the hell out of José. Does Carvalho know who he is?”

“He thinks it might be somebody named Adrian Mutu.” Camoranesi lilted the name uncertainly, looking back and forth between Figo and Gianluigi. “Listen, Gigi, Fabio’s come in and he wants to know what to do about that new shipment.”

“It goes in the truck-beds. Usual set-up. Anything else? All right.” Gianluigi waved off the other man and watched him shut the door behind him. Then he looked at Figo. “Mutu?”

“It’s a Romanian name, I think. José had some suppliers out of that country, but I think things were going sour near the…the end, I suppose it is now. He didn’t have anyone by that name working for him, but maybe his suppliers sent over a liaison. I’ll look into it,” Figo said slowly, twisting the paper between his fingers. Then he grimaced and stared off to the side, at the wide window that dominated one side of the office. “When I have time. For now you’ll just have to keep him till we figure out if anyone will want him back.”

That window overlooked the ground floor. It was shuttered but Gianluigi turned and pulled at the string. He glanced out at the hustling going on below, then turned back to Figo. “What went wrong?”

Figo snorted again, amused. “They tried to take out Zlatan about a half-hour ago. Also he’s got himself a partner, and I’ve got to start on the paperwork for it.”

“Since it’s him, I assume he at least did us the favor of killing some of them,” Gianluigi muttered. He noted the bit about the partner for later, when he could afford to be curious about gossip, and came back to the desk to the phone. “You can’t farm Mutu out to Nuno Gomes or someone else? I have things to do here, and more since we’re going to be knee-deep in reprisals.”

“You want to have Nuno Gomes babysit someone?” Figo said incredulously. “Sometimes I _do_ think you have a sense of humor.”

Gianluigi sighed and put his hand on the phone. He started to lift it, then just let his hand rest on it. “Figo, I have—”

“—to watch Mutu. Rui Costa’s busy, Nuno Gomes is busy, Pep’s busy, I’m busy. I know Raúl hasn’t slept in his own bed in the past week, Henrik’s already out, and as soon as Zlatan’s had a good night’s sleep, I’m sending him out again. There’s no one.” Figo shrugged helplessly, an ironic counterpoint to what he was doing to Gianluigi. “You’ll have to put up with it. I’m sure you’ll handle it with your usual professionalism.”

“You are a very unpleasant man at times,” Gianluigi said.

Unperturbed, Figo leaned forward and deposited the doctor’s report on Gianluigi’s desk. “Pep’ll be in tomorrow night anyway, so you’ll have him and his men to help.”

“You’re not being very useful here, and with all the demands on your time.” Gianluigi lifted the phone and stuck his finger into one of the dial’s holes. “Good night.”

“Likewise,” Figo said, leaving. He could get the door himself so Gianluigi didn’t bother to stop dialing.

* * *

Whatever the reason for Mutu’s presence, Gianluigi wasn’t about to wait to learn it before he got rid of the physical evidence. While Camoranesi and the others stripped out the car, Gianluigi saw to the man.

The chains had been only temporary, till they’d had in the doctor and heard what Mutu’s condition was. Then they’d replaced them with a shackle around one ankle, which would keep Mutu to the bed. When Gianluigi came into the room, the other man flopped over on the mattress, struggled to focus his wandering eyes on Gianluigi and then resumed yanking on his foot. He’d already rubbed off some skin and the sheets under his ankle were bloody.

Gianluigi came up to the side and avoided Mutu’s uncoordinated swipe at him, then caught the man’s wrist on its backswing. He did the same to the other, snapped a pair of handcuffs over them and left Mutu to flail while he took out his switchblade. He tested the edge, decided it was sharp enough, and lifted his right foot out of the way as Mutu managed to toss himself completely off the bed.

The impact winded the man for a moment, which Gianluigi used to grab hold of one of Mutu’s shoulders. He crouched down and pressed on the shoulder with his knee, then pivoted to pin down Mutu’s arms. Then he slit open both sleeves of the man’s shirt. Mutu spewed forth a torrent of words at him, a few of them in Italian and the odd English one. The rest was in a language Gianluigi didn’t understand, but Romanian seemed probable. The part Gianluigi did understand was impolite at best, and so Gianluigi didn’t particularly feel his lack of comprehension of the rest.

Gianluigi put both knees on Mutu’s shoulder and forced up the man’s arms, then nearly lost his balance as Mutu abruptly stilled. For a moment he thought it was a ploy, but then he saw that he’d unintentionally brought the tip of his knife near Mutu’s face. He flipped the blade shut and used his fingers to undo Mutu’s shirt-buttons, then pulled off the shirt and tossed it aside. Mutu started to struggle again and this time Gianluigi purposefully opened the knife by his throat.

The struggles stopped and Gianluigi was able to cut through the man’s undershirt in peace. He kicked that to the side as he got up, gave Mutu a moment to try and roll away from him, and then stepped on Mutu’s hands. Then he bent down and yanked open Mutu’s belt. He let the ends hang as he sliced open the outside seam of Mutu’s right pant-leg. His reach let him get as far as Mutu’s knee before he had to stand again.

Mutu pulled in his hands as soon as Gianluigi got off them. He rolled onto them, wrenching his head back to keep his eyes on Gianluigi. He was breathing hard and the skin around his mouth looked a little grey, and when Gianluigi grabbed his knee, Mutu only made a token resistance. Physically—his verbal protests continued despite his obvious lack of breath.

The trousers and boxers done, Gianluigi jerked them clear of Mutu and then dropped them onto the other clothes. He brushed them into a pile with his foot, then pulled out a laundry bag. After tugging open the bag’s mouth, he let it hang down while he pushed the clothes into it with his foot. Then he tied it off and went to the door.

The protests died away, only to come back in a loud shout as Gianluigi opened the door. He ignored them and dropped the bag outside, then came back without fully shutting the door; Mutu shouted again, even more loudly, before dropping so hard against the floor that he nearly cracked his chin on it. Finally out of breath, Mutu stared up at Gianluigi, eyes glittering with fear and anger, gasping for air.

Gianluigi stopped about a foot short of the man and looked down at him, then at the switch-blade. He made a point of shutting it and putting it in his pocket. “You’re in the middle of a building, which is why there are no windows in this room. And all the people here work for me, and they’re not going to come see what’s going on. You might as well save your breath.”

“Cock-sucking son of a bitch,” Mutu said, faintly but very distinctly.

“I do not appreciate your insulting my parentage,” Gianluigi said. He walked around Mutu and unlocked the chain from the bed, then wrapped the end around his hand. He gave it a tug—Mutu was twisting around to face him—braced his foot on the floor, and then used it to drag Mutu into the adjoining washroom.

Once Mutu was fully inside, Gianluigi kicked the door shut and got hold of Mutu’s elbow. He lifted the other man and Mutu writhed, glanced over his shoulder and stiffened. Then he threw himself into a fit of kicking and clumsy slaps, and even an attempt to bite Gianluigi as Gianluigi wrestled him over the rim of the tub and into it. Gianluigi wasn’t able to let go after Mutu was inside; he had to use his elbow to hit the tap.

The moment the water touched Mutu, he gasped and tried to jump away from it. He wouldn’t let Gianluigi reach the hot-water tap, and at this point Gianluigi wasn’t much in favor of exerting that much effort to see to the man’s comfort. He held Mutu in the icy water and closed his eyes against the increasingly high splashing, letting his own clothes be soaked till they were clammy and dripping.

At some point Mutu stopped struggling and started pleading. His teeth began to chatter and Gianluigi opened his eyes. The other man quieted down and stared at him, shivering violently, his hands pulling at Gianluigi’s shirt.

Gianluigi moved his hands to Mutu’s shoulders and shoved down hard. Mutu’s fingers ripped open the middle of his shirt and several buttons disappeared amid the desperate thrashing of the other man. Water got in Gianluigi’s eyes, into his nose, and made the world a blurry, burning, noisy place. He put up with it and eventually it got quiet again.

At that point Gianluigi took his hands off Mutu’s shoulders. He rubbed the water from his eyes and looked into the tub, where Mutu’s hands were feebly groping at the tub’s wall. Gianluigi sighed and reached in, seized one hand and guided it to the rim. A moment later, Mutu heaved himself up and then collapsed over the side of the tub, coughing and spitting.

“Soap is here,” Gianluigi said, turning around. He got the bar from its niche on the wall and put it on the floor beneath Mutu’s hanging mass of hair. Then he did the same with a bottle of shampoo and conditioner. “You can do it yourself, or you can take your chances on my pushing you under the water again.”

Mutu’s hands lifted, then dropped to press hard against the floor as a racking cough overtook him. He shook his head and fumbled around till he found the soap. “I.”

“Good.” Gianluigi turned off the tap, got up and went out of the bathroom. He flapped his arms a few times to judge how drenched he was, then grimaced. Then he went to the bed to strip off the sheets.

* * *

“I’m sorry,” Mutu said. He pushed himself to the opposite end of the tub and warily watched Gianluigi pull the drain. He pulled up his knees and kept his arms close into himself except when a limp lock fell into his eyes. Then he used the heel of his hand to slick it out of his face. “I didn’t mean to…I’ll cooperate now, I just didn’t know if you were the ones who knocked me out.”

He looked cleaner. With the dirt off his face, Gianluigi could see that his cheeks were smoothly shaven, so he hadn’t been in the car for very long. “I suppose that wasn’t a silly assumption to make.”

“So…where is this? Who are you?” Mutu asked, gesturing vaguely. When Gianluigi came towards him, he stiffened and then put out his hands. He looked shocked when Gianluigi merely grabbed the chain between them and pulled him out of the tub. “Wait, I said I’d—”

“Which will save my wardrobe some wear and tear if you keep your word, but which does little to convince me that it’s safe to trust you to stay here.” Gianluigi dragged the man towards the wall, released the chain so momentum and Mutu’s slow reflexes carried him into it, and then tossed a towel to Mutu when he put up his hands again. “When you’re dry, you put that on the toilet and I’ll give you some clothes.”

Mutu let the towel land on his hands. It immediately began to soak up water but he didn’t move to take it. He sat in the tub and watched Gianluigi go back into the other room.

The sheets were off the bed and tied into a bundle, which Gianluigi left in the hall. The other bundle, the one of Mutu’s clothes, was gone and in its place were several flat cardboard boxes, plus one shoebox. After stacking them more stably, Gianluigi carried them and went back to the bathroom, where Mutu was still sitting in the same position. “Do you want me to do it for you?” Gianluigi sighed.

Mutu flinched, then twisted his hands so the towel wrapped around them. He started to mop at his face and neck. “What’s going on? Is this a kidnapping?”

“A kidnapping?” In the first box was a man’s dress shirt, label cut out. Gianluigi flipped it open and began to lay it by the sink, but then noticed the counter was wet. He looked around for a dry spot, failed to find one and had to settle for stacking the boxes on the floor by his feet. Hands free, he refolded the shirt and draped it over one arm. Then he reached for another box. “What makes you say that?”

“The…these?” Mutu said, shaking his hands. Then he grimaced and pulled the towel off them with his teeth. He shoved the cuffs up at Gianluigi. “The room?”

The rest of the boxes contained a pair of trousers, underwear, socks and shoes, all with the labels removed. Thankfully someone had been competent about that. “Why would somebody kidnap you?”

The other man began to answer, then frowned and pushed his hands down into his lap. He stared at Gianluigi through narrowed eyes. “You have no idea what I’m doing here.”

“I don’t yet have any reason to give much thought to it, besides that it’s an inconvenience to me and that I’d rather you weren’t here,” Gianluigi said. He kicked the empty boxes back into the bedroom and went up to the tub. “If you’re going to waste the towel, then—”

“No, don’t—do whatever you’re going to do. Look, all right?” Mutu backed up against the tub, then ducked his head and hastily scrubbed at his hair with the towel. Next he ran it over the back of his neck and across his chest, then over his legs. “Listen, you can call—can call—José Mourinho. You know him?”

Gianluigi grimaced. “Mourinho’s no longer available.”

“What?” Mutu yelped. He dropped the towel and stared up at Gianluigi. “They killed him?”

“No.”

Mutu stared at Gianluigi a moment longer. Then he slumped down and angrily flicked the towel at his knee. “Damn.”

“You didn’t like him?” Gianluigi asked. He shifted the clothes to one arm and reached down to take the towel.

At first Mutu didn’t seem to notice, but as the towel dragged away, his head moved so his eyes could follow its movement. Then he hissed and grabbed at the towel, but missed so that instead he fell over the rim. His hair fell into his face, then slapped back as he tossed his head, sending water into Gianluigi’s shirt. “Wait, give me—what, you want to look at me?”

He had a few tattoos, but nothing particularly revealing or interesting. Gianluigi dropped the clothes on Mutu, then went back to the doorway. He bent down and gathered up the boxes, then unhooked their corners and flattened them.

“Listen, I’m Adrian Mutu, I’m with the bunch over in Chelsea. And I worked with Mourinho, making sure everything was all right between him and us. If you can’t get him, you can call somebody in Chelsea and they’ll let you know,” Mutu said. The sound of rustling cloth intermittently muffled his words. He grunted and shifted in the tub, knocking his handcuffs against the porcelain so it rang. Then his foot slapped down on the tile.

Gianluigi looked up and Mutu stopped halfway out of the tub, his hands gripping the rim. He had on everything but the shirt, which was slung around his neck. “Chelsea?” Gianluigi repeated.

“Just call them, all right?” Mutu said again. He sounded more desperate and looked as if he didn’t realize it. He got his other leg slowly out of the tub, then straightened up. Then he pulled the shirt from his neck and waved it at Gianluigi. “But get the cuffs off so I can get this on first.”

“I’ll call, but I know the Chelsea boys and I don’t remember you.” Gianluigi tucked the boxes under his arm and turned around.

He heard Mutu exhale loudly. Then the other man swore and his feet pounded towards Gianluigi, swishing through the water on the floor. His ankle chain struck the toilet with a loud ringing. Then the swish turned into a screeching slide ending in a loud thump into the wall; Mutu cursed bitterly. He called out to Gianluigi, then hit something in the bathroom. The hinges of its door squealed, and Gianluigi crossed the threshold into the hall and then turned to shut that door.

* * *

“So he was with them, one of Ranieri’s last projects. But you know what happened next: Ranieri got it and Mourinho came in, and word is that Mourinho didn’t like Mutu,” Camoranesi said. He handed Gianluigi a set of ownership papers, then turned around to call out instructions to the men packing up car parts. “And now there’s no center in Chelsea and everybody’s too busy trying to be the next big man.”

The papers looked fine. Gianluigi folded them up and took a step to the left, where an envelope was waiting and ready. He inserted the papers into it, then sealed and stamped the envelope so that it’d look as if it had come fresh from a dealership. “Why wasn’t he liked?”

“Disrespectful behavior. Unreliable. He ran around with showgirls and shot up cocaine instead of doing his work. Are we selling these parts or sending them to the foundry?” Camoranesi pushed some hair out of his face, then sighed and undid the band around his ponytail. He spent a few seconds smoothing the strands back from his face before redoing the tail. “Tiago’s upset, by the way. He thinks you’re mad at him.”

“Of course he does. Tell him to go sleep on it, and wake up early. He can fill Chiellini’s order, if he’s got enough time to think about what I think of him,” Gianluigi said. He gave the envelope back to Camoranesi and turned towards the stairs. “Melt the parts.”

He went up the stairs and back to his office, only to stop outside the door. Gianluigi backed up so he was to the left of it and listened carefully. Then he went back down the hall and into one of the other rooms. He got a gun out of the cabinet there and returned to his office door, which he opened while raising his gun.

Mutu’s head jerked towards him. The man’s eyes widened and then he threw himself down behind Gianluigi’s desk, his hands coming up over his head. They were empty, but his arms were white—he had on the shirt. He still looked damp and the shirt stuck to him closely enough for Gianluigi to see he wasn’t armed. “Wait! Wait!”

After that he didn’t say anything, but Gianluigi could hear his fast, rough breathing from across the room. It briefly stopped when Gianluigi clicked the safety back on the gun, then started up again a touch slower. Gianluigi exhaled himself and stuck the gun in the back of the waistband, then came up to the desk.

On it was a twisted paperclip. Some of the ledgers had been moved as well; Gianluigi turned back a few pages, to the scrap that was inserted as a bookmark. “Did you break my door?”

“No. There was a—a broken razor in the bathroom. I used it to push back the bolt,” Mutu said slowly. He pushed himself up and back onto his heels, then twisted around to look at Gianluigi. He put his right hand on the desk and the handcuff swinging from it slid across a ledger. They both looked at it. Then Mutu looked at Gianluigi again. He reached across that arm for the paperclip and picked that up. For a moment he spun it between his fingers.

Then Gianluigi stepped back and Mutu got to his feet. He applied the end of the paperclip to the handcuffs and had them off his wrist in a few seconds.

“I called,” Gianluigi said.

“Oh.” Mutu slouched hard against the desk and breathed deeply. He was relieved but he didn’t seem very happy. “So you know who I am?”

“Mourinho is out and no one still at Chelsea seems to want you back.” After lifting away the handcuffs, Gianluigi worked his way around the desk shutting the ledgers. He finished on the opposite end, where he pulled open a drawer and then dropped the cuffs into them. “Should I call Romania?”

As Gianluigi had moved, Mutu had turned with him. He stared hard at Gianluigi, the way people did when they weren’t sure he was joking. Then he abruptly threw himself about so his back was to the desk. He snarled something to the blinds, twisting his hand around the twin red lines that encircled his other wrist.

“No, I take it.” The phone rang and Gianluigi watched Mutu’s shoulder jerk. But the other man didn’t turn to look, so Gianluigi picked it up. He kept the call and his answers as brief as possible. “Why would Mourinho put you in a car trunk and send you here?”

At that Mutu turned. He seemed surprised enough so that Gianluigi guessed he’d been drugged long before he was put in the car. Then he dropped his head and muttered angrily to himself again. He rubbed at the side of his face before abruptly looking over his shoulder. “Well, so when do you shoot me?”

“When I think there’s a point to it. If that was Mourinho’s point in sending you here, then I’m not going to do it unless I know his point and agree with it,” Gianluigi said. He heard a car engine and went around the desk to open the blinds.

Someone had just pulled into the garage. They drove up to Camoranesi, who gestured to an empty space. The car parked there and sat idle for a few seconds before the driver’s side door opened, and Xavi stepped out. He was early.

Gianluigi looked back at Mutu, who was dragging his fingers through his hair. It’d dried a little, but that hadn’t improved the lank strands. They stuck to the man’s neck and face, and made him look as unkempt as a beggar.

“I think Mourinho did that because he was in a hurry so he couldn’t take care of me himself, and he doesn’t like you so he wouldn’t mind if it annoyed you,” Mutu said.

“I thought you didn’t know who I was.”

Mutu looked faintly condescending. He waved limply at Gianluigi’s desk. “I poked around.”

“If you were looking for the cocaine, that’s downstairs,” Gianluigi said deliberately, stretching out his leg. His foot touched one of the wheels on his chair.

Mutu went white in the face, his eyes as wide as eggs. Then his lips thinned out and he made a jerky, sharp movement towards Gianluigi. Something to his side caught his attention and he started to look at it, then threw himself back against the desk so the chair barely missed slamming into him.

Gianluigi unhooked his foot from the chair leg and stood back from the wall. He grabbed the back of the chair and pulled it towards him, then sat down in it. Then he rolled the chair up to the desk; Mutu’s hip was slightly in the way so Gianluigi put his hand on it and pushed hard, and the other man moved.

“I gave that up a month ago. That and all the rest—I’m not that man anymore. I swore I wouldn’t fuck up again, not after the hosp—who told you that anyway? Mourinho?” Mutu spat out. He twisted and turned against the desk as if in the grips of a fever. Then he bent down and craned his face so he was looking Gianluigi in the eye. “I’m different now.”

“I wouldn’t know, I have no standard of comparison,” Gianluigi said, pushing Mutu away. When the other man refused to go, Gianluigi picked up the nearest ledger and opened it so Mutu would have to move, or else take the heavy corner in his cheek.

Mutu moved. He settled a few inches away, still glowering. He had one arm wrapped around himself and the high color in his cheeks hadn’t faded any.

“And Mourinho, as I said, is no longer available,” Gianluigi added. He reached out and found a pen without looking, then laid the ledger flat against the desk.

A few minutes went by in silence. Gianluigi finished adding up one column and moved onto the next, only to find a discrepancy in one of the entries. He sat back and reviewed his memory, then exhaled irritably and pushed himself away from the desk. Several boxes lined the far wall and he went over to them and began to search through the files inside.

“So what are you waiting for?” Mutu asked.

“Orders. I don’t decide what happens to you.” Thankfully it didn’t take long to track down the relevant invoice. A moment’s glance showed that the mistake was due to a misreading of somebody’s horrific handwriting. Gianluigi put away the invoice and went back to the desk to correct the entry.

Fingers began to drum on the desk to Gianluigi’s left. “Well, can you tell them I’m available?” Mutu said, voice wavering. He took a deep breath, but that only worsened the wobble. “I don’t want to go back to Romania.”

After correcting the entry, Gianluigi continued with totting up the numbers. He got to the middle of the column before he gave up and returned the other man’s stare. “You have immigration problems?” Gianluigi sighed.

“No. My papers are fine. I just—I don’t think I should go back there.” Mutu tapped his fingers more quickly and loudly. “What about you? It sounds like you have a pretty big operation here, maybe I could—”

“The only opening I have is for a secretary,” Gianluigi said. He tried to add two and five and came up with eight, then looked at the other man. “Stop that.”

Mutu looked blank. “Stop wh—”

The phone rang. Gianluigi picked it up, listened and then put it down a bit roughly. The phone clattered out of position and Gianluigi had to push it back with a finger. Then he got up and grabbed Mutu’s elbow, and began to drag them towards the door.

“What now?” Mutu hissed, yanking at his arm. “Where are we going? What are you doing with me?”

“I don’t know, but you’re not staying in my office to satisfy your curiosity.” 

Mutu tried to kick Gianluigi. His foot grazed Gianluigi’s knee as Gianluigi twisted out of the way, towards Mutu; the sudden shortening of distance between them threw Mutu off-balance. He fell onto Gianluigi, who simply put his hands up, let Mutu’s chest press into them and then shoved the other man into the hall. Then he caught Mutu’s wrist and twisted it up behind the other man’s back, forcing Mutu face-first into the wall. He held Mutu there while locking the office, which he reminded himself that he needed to do all the time, even when he was on the premises.

“I saw a lot in there,” Mutu muttered. “In your books. You should worry about that, maybe.”

“To the point where I think it’s a good idea to kill you?” Gianluigi released the other man and stepped back. He glanced over himself, then smoothed down his shirt and tucked it back under his vest.

For a few moments Mutu slumped against the wall. He closed his eyes tightly and breathed hard. He did pull his hand out from behind his back and put it up by his head, but then he did nothing but curl and uncurl its fingers. Then he opened his eyes. He moved his head a little to see where Gianluigi was, flinched, and slowly pushed himself away from the wall. His head stayed down and the set of his shoulders was discouraged.

“I don’t know, maybe that’s all you can do with me now,” he said under his breath. He pushed his hair out of his face, then pushed the heel of his hand under his chin, as if trying to snap his own neck.

Gianluigi pulled out his watch and checked the time, then took Mutu by the arm again. The other man didn’t struggle but he didn’t come along either and Gianluigi had to drag him several feet before he began to walk. He pulled weakly at his arm and Gianluigi ignored it. They went nearly to the staircase before Mutu finally yanked his arm free. He went through the doorway and then stayed as far from Gianluigi as he could while going down the stairs. He was less irritating when he was irritated than when he was maudlin, Gianluigi noted.

* * *

Fabio sighed and spread his hands. “Gigi, I don’t know. I’m sorry, but I just got in and I haven’t had time to look around. I don’t even know why Xavi’s here.”

“Because it’s going to be a bigger operation than we said, and Pep sent me ahead to start getting the supplies together,” Xavi offered. He held out a piece of paper to Gianluigi.

It was a list. The items ran neatly down one side of the page in two columns. None of the requests were unreasonable, but taken together they’d seriously deplete Gianluigi’s stocks. “Mauro?”

“I’m in a transmission!” came a muffled voice from the far right.

Gianluigi looked up from the list and around. His gaze passed over Xavi, who made an apologetic shrug, and ended on Mutu, who was returning Fabio’s suspicious look with a flat-eyed stare of his own. Then Mutu turned and saw Gianluigi looking at him, and raised his brows as if he expected Gianluigi to address him. Gianluigi turned to Fabio and handed him Xavi’s list. “Here, see to this. Xavi, we’ve it all on hand but not all of it is here. Fabio will work on getting it from the other warehouses.”

Xavi nodded crisply and half-turned a beat faster than Fabio. Then he waited as Fabio cleared his throat and put out a hand to Gianluigi. “So you don’t want me to try getting Raúl or Figo?”

“No. If they haven’t been in—”

The buzzer for the phone in Gianluigi’s office sounded. Mutu jumped and twisted around, then awkwardly resettled himself as he noticed the attention he’d attracted. He ran one hand over his head and Fabio looked at him, blinking. Then Fabio hooked a thumb in Mutu’s direction. “Who’s he? New?”

“Adrian Mutu. He’s not new, he’s waiting and if you see him try to leave, shoot him,” Gianluigi said, heading back to the stairs.

* * *

Gianluigi was halfway down the hall when the phone’s ringing stopped. He went another two steps and it started up again, echoed by the weak sound of the buzzer on the first floor. Then the thump of someone running after Gianluigi somewhat drowned out both of those noises; Gianluigi turned around and Mutu skidded to a stop, then slapped his hand against the wall to keep himself from falling.

“I thought I told them to shoot you,” Gianluigi said. He stopped in front of his office door and took out his keys.

“I’m not leaving, I’m coming—” Mutu’s voice faded as Gianluigi stepped into the office, then rose sharply as the other man charged in after Gianluigi “—what’s the deal? What are you trying to do here? You’re treating me like I’m some kind of—of baby.”

“Well, you’ve been singularly incompetent so far.” Gianluigi picked up the phone.

The buzzer stopped. Something clicked in Gianluigi’s ear and he took the phone from his head. He looked down at Mutu’s hand over the phone hook, then up at the man’s face.

“I’m a very good hitman,” Mutu said heatedly. “I’ve killed—”

Gianluigi yanked Mutu’s hand off the phone and shoved back on it. Then he punched Mutu in the jaw as the other man stumbled. Mutu fell and Gianluigi picked up the phone’s body. He carried it around to the other side of his desk, then put it down in time to take the call. “Yes, I’m sorry,” Gianluigi said. “No, there’s nothing wrong here. I was working and I knocked the phone off when I reached out for it. What did—oh. But—all right, no, I understand. I’ll have it ready.”

He put the phone down onto its cradle and Mutu put his hand on the edge of the desk. The other man pulled himself to his knees and stopped there, looking over the desk at Gianluigi. He had the beginnings of a bruise on his jaw and he was rubbing hard at it. A little water was in his eyes and he angrily pressed out the drops with his fingertips before he stood up. 

“I’m not interested,” Gianluigi said. He reached for a pen and somehow missed it, and had to grab at it again. Part of his sleeve caught on the corner of a ledger and as he jerked back his arm, he tore the page. He stopped instantly, then slowly put his hand down flat on the ledger. “Damn it.”

Mutu looked at the ledger, then stood back from the desk. He watched Gianluigi unhook his sleeve from the page and then pick up the pen. The flush in his cheeks faded till in the dark, he looked as if he’d been carved from ice. “I’m not trying to cause trouble for you,” he said quietly. “I don’t even know why I’m here.”

“Well, I don’t know either,” Gianluigi muttered tightly. He searched his desk for a spare piece of paper, but couldn’t find one even though he normally had dozens to hand. Finally he opened a drawer and found one. He took it out and put it on the desk, and then he noticed that a blank scrap of paper was lying under it. Gianluigi closed his eyes, inhaled steadily, and then opened his eyes so he could write a note to himself.

“Are you supposed to?” Mutu asked. For some reason he sounded almost sympathetic. Then he tried to put his hand on Gianluigi’s shoulder; Gianluigi jerked it away and Mutu left his hand in the air a moment. He looked startled, but not offended. Then the planes of his face rearranged themselves into a wry smile. He pushed at his hair and adjusted the wrinkled folds of his shirt. “I guess if you follow orders well enough, you don’t need to know.”

Gianluigi dropped the pen and waved the note a few times to help the ink dry. He scanned the top of his desk and spotted the corners of several other notes, and pulled them free. Then he put aside the note he’d just written and pulled out his cigarette lighter. “Anyone who thinks that doesn’t know what they’re doing.”

Mutu inhaled sharply. He leaned back, then frowned. Then he shook his head and went around the side of the desk. He used his foot to push the wastebasket towards Gianluigi just as Gianluigi was bending down to retrieve it, then braced his hip against the desk’s edge. “Did you just agree with me?”

“In a way,” Gianluigi said after a moment. He read through each old note, then bundled them together into a facsimile of a cigarette. Then he lit the end and held it over the wastebasket so it would catch the glowing ashes. “But in a way, no. If you can follow orders, then you can follow orders. If you can know the orders you’re following, that’s another matter. Then you won’t just do your job, you’ll succeed at it.”

“You sound like a businessman,” Mutu commented.

Gianluigi flinched, then snapped shut his cigarette lighter. He shoved it back in his pocket, then lifted his head. By then the flame had reached his fingers and they were beginning to hurt. He blew out the flame, shook the bit of ash to cool it, and then let it fall into the wastebasket. “Then you don’t know anything.”

“Well, what do you expect? Nobody’s given me a chance.”

For a moment Gianluigi stood and stared into the wastebasket, watching the smoke rise from it. The circular wisps gradually thinned and disappeared. He kicked it aside and reached across the desk to get the phone. “You’re here instead of in Romania, and here instead of still with Chelsea.”

“You bastard,” Mutu snapped. He breathed in, then out much more slowly. “You’re right. I had some chances and I wasted them. But—”

“You want another one? For what? No, don’t tell me what lesson you’ve learned. I’m not a schoolmaster, and I’m on the phone. Shh.” Just then the other end of the line was picked up and Gianluigi had to turn his attention to it. “I know it’s late, but this is—yes. I want another three cases. You can send them in with my other order. It’s not a rush but I need that exact number. All right, good.”

He put down the phone and looked up. The whole of Mutu’s face strained with tension. Every so often the gorge of Mutu’s throat would rise slowly, then drop quickly as he swallowed. His arms were down by his sides and they ended in clenched fists.

“This isn’t Church either,” Gianluigi said more seriously. “Chances aren’t just given out.”

Mutu stared at him a moment longer, then abruptly turned away. He went over to the window and put his hands on the sill, leaning hard over them. “I know. And I’m not saying I deserve one either.”

“It hasn’t sounded like you do,” Gianluigi replied.

The other man neither spoke nor moved. The phone rang and he stayed in place as Gianluigi answered. His shoulders shifted a little when the phone clicked back onto its hook, but Mutu didn’t turn.

“That was my orders.” Gianluigi took out his lighter and burned up the last note, dropping the ashes into the wastebasket. “Regarding you.”

Mutu stiffened. His head dropped and he let out his current breath in slow stages. He curled his fingers against the sill, then uncurled them and turned around.

“Why can’t you go back to Romania?” Gianluigi asked.

Mutu frowned. He glanced at the phone. “I owe a lot of money. I came here to work to pay it back, only…it was a deal with Chelsea, not with me. I don’t know how it is now. What’d they say?”

“That it appears you don’t matter to anyone, and that you could be disposed of without repercussions. Only a few people know you’re here and the ones who haven’t fled the country are working for us,” Gianluigi said.

Red bloomed across Mutu’s cheekbones, like blood spilling across a floor. Its violent color toned down after a few seconds, then rapidly disappeared to leave the man as pale as ice. He lifted his hand and bent his head, then quickly put his hand down and looked to the side. He’d been surprised at the news and was irritated at his surprise. 

Then he looked back at Gianluigi. “Do you still want to die?” Gianluigi asked.

“What?” Mutu shook his head. Something about his sleeve caught his attention and he raised his arm across himself to examine it. He twisted his fingers around a loose thread, then snapped it free. “That doesn’t seem to matter, does it?”

“Then why did you stay to search my office instead of running when you got yourself free?”

“Because—I don’t know. Because I didn’t know where I was, but I knew that if I went out, I wouldn’t have a chance,” Mutu said angrily. He threw down the thread and jerked up his chin to look at Gianluigi. “You didn’t kill me straight away. I thought that that was a sign of hope—all right, no, I don’t want to die. I want to try again, I want to show somebody that I can do it right, but…”

Gianluigi shrugged and realized he still had his hand on the phone. He took it off. “You could’ve come and made me help you. There’s a gun in this office.”

Mutu snorted, then dropped his head into his hand and laughed. His shoulders shook unevenly and his fingers curled to dig their nails into the flesh of his mouth and chin. Then he dragged off his hand; the nails left red streaks. He nodded at the correct drawer. “Oh, well. The thing is that you didn’t kill me right away. I keep thinking that means something. But that’s stupid. The other people I’ve worked for wouldn’t have cared.”

The phone rang over the last word out of Mutu’s mouth. They both looked at the phone. It rang again and Mutu’s arm made a convulsive movement towards it. Then he tore himself away and spun back to the window, breathing hard. Gianluigi picked it up. “Yes? What? Now? I thought—we pay you to take care of this. We pay you and here this is. We’ll have to see about it come the next drop.”

Then Gianluigi slammed down the phone. He pivoted on his heel and grabbed the edge of the desk as he bent over it, then pulled open the bottom drawer. In it was a small safe and Gianluigi spun the combination quickly. The tumblers clicked into place and he flipped up the lid, then took out two thin packets of cash. Then he flicked the lid shut with two fingers and straightened up.

He glimpsed Mutu looking over his shoulder at him. The other man was opening his mouth as if to speak, but by then Gianluigi had turned fully around. He went to the door and out it without hearing any words or movement from Mutu.

* * *

The two beat cops showed up fifteen minutes later. By then what could be rolled out of sight or thrown under a tarp had been, and what couldn’t be was still out in the open. Xavi and Fabio had herded most of the men up onto the roof for the time being, while Camoranesi and a skeleton crew remained on the floor with Gianluigi.

Gianluigi greeted the cops politely and did nothing when they brushed that aside, demanding to see everyone’s papers. He slipped one of the packets of cash under his ID papers when he gave it to the cop and the other man didn’t give it back. But the cops still ordered everyone to stand alongside one of the walls while they inspected the place.

Camoranesi was slow to react because he was looking at Gianluigi, and for that the cops slapped him in the face. He winced and looked again at Gianluigi, who nodded minutely. They both joined the others against the wall. There was a broken brick in it, Gianluigi noted as he stopped about a foot in front of it. Then he dropped down and twisted around, lunging for a toolbox in the corner.

The cops had taken out tommyguns from beneath their coats but hadn’t gotten into position yet. One of them immediately tried to track Gianluigi but the other jerked his gun up towards the line of men. They weren’t all turned around and couldn’t see what was going on. Gianluigi’s hand closed around a wrench.

The one on Gianluigi opened fire and then skewed away from Gianluigi, his gun still firing. Then it fell and he followed only a second later; his partner bent backwards as if he’d taken a blow to the spine, his gun scattering bullets at the ceiling. Gianluigi flung the wrench at it and knocked the gun out of the man’s hands. It fell away from the men, shooting into the cars. The smell of gas suddenly filled the car.

Something burned in Gianluigi’s left thigh and arm. He put his hand down and saw blood come up around it, then looked up at the sound of running feet. Camoranesi threw himself down on the floor by one of the tommyguns and stopped it from shooting, then did the same to the other. “Christ,” he said. “Thank God we got the ammunition out of here.”

“Find out which engine is leaking,” Gianluigi grunted, pulling himself off his knees. He got hold of the toolbox and got himself up on one leg, then felt at the injury. “Call Xavi back down. Get rid of those bodies.”

“They’re not cops!” said another of the men. “Just dressed up in uniforms. These fucking bastards are with…where did you come from?”

“Upstairs—shit, don’t _shoot_ me,” Mutu hissed. “I shot at them, not at you.”

Gianluigi twisted around and Mutu was holding up his hands. In one of them was the gun from Gianluigi’s office. “Mauro, leave him.”

Camoranesi looked at Gianluigi, then reluctantly lowered the tommygun. Then he looked at Gianluigi again and swore. He tucked the gun under his arm and yanked at the man examining the bodies. “Get Fabio down here. He can drive Gigi to the hosp—”

“He is not driving me to the hospital. He’s staying here and running the shop till Del Piero gets here. Get Xavi too—he’ll have to help get replacement parts.” Both the leg and arm injuries were only muscle, but the wound on Gianluigi’s arm was deep and was bleeding heavily. He pulled at his sleeve till he’d ripped it up to the sleeve, then wrapped it around his arm and tied it off with his teeth.

People’s feet began to run purposefully about, except for one pair which came directly towards Gianluigi. It stopped and a gun appeared in Gianluigi’s field of vision. The handle was towards him.

“Keep that,” Gianluigi muttered. When it didn’t withdraw, he looked irritably up at Mutu. “Keep it and give me your arm.”

After a moment, Mutu stuck the gun in the back of his waistband. He put out his right arm and Gianluigi grabbed it just above the elbow, then worked his hand up onto Mutu’s shoulder. Mutu stepped forward as Gianluigi pushed himself off the toolbox, taking Gianluigi’s weight.

“Upstairs.” Gianluigi nodded to Camoranesi. “When the doctor gets here, send him up there.”

* * *

In the office, Gianluigi sat on the floor against the desk and made phone calls. He sent Mutu around the corner to get water and towels from the bathroom. The other man brought them and then settled down by Gianluigi to hold one towel against Gianluigi’s arm and another against his leg till the doctor came. Then he held the doctor’s tools as the doctor cleaned the wounds and put in temporary stitches. Gianluigi would have to go to an actual surgery room and have them done properly within the day, the doctor said.

For that Gianluigi thanked him and paid him. Then he told Mutu to see the man out. As they were leaving, Del Piero and Camoranesi came in to see Gianluigi. The three of them had a short conversation regarding the imposter policemen. In the middle of it, Guardiola called and Del Piero took it while Camoranesi helped Gianluigi change clothes. Then Del Piero went downstairs.

Mutu came back and after hesitating in the doorway, came in and up to the desk as Gianluigi gave Camoranesi a few last instructions. He took the gun out of his waistband—Camoranesi glanced at it—and laid it on the desk, pointed at him. Camoranesi looked at Gianluigi and Gianluigi repeated the last thing he’d said.

“I heard you. All right,” Camoranesi said, a little irritated. “Anything else?”

“I can’t come back in the middle of what I’m doing, so don’t make me need to.” Gianluigi picked up the gun. “That’s it.”

Camoranesi glanced at Mutu again, then left. Mutu opened his mouth and Gianluigi gave him back the gun.

“I know you said to keep it, but it’s not mine,” Mutu said.

Gianluigi tried a step with his bad leg and had to hop quickly onto his good one. He essayed a few more steps and managed to develop something of a rhythm, if awkward and slow. It was serviceable so he didn’t stop, but instead continued towards the door. “It’s not about whose damn gun it is. I can’t shoot with it, so you keep it.”

He reached the doorway and turned, but Mutu was halfway across the room at that point. The man covered the other half before Gianluigi needed to speak, so Gianluigi merely turned back and limped into the hall. He felt a hand push at his side and lifted his arm, and Mutu ducked his shoulder under it. But Mutu headed for the stairs and Gianluigi had to kick his leg to make him go to the elevator at the other end.

Mutu cursed and Gianluigi pushed the ‘down’ button. They waited for the elevator to come up.

“I just thought if anyone was going to kill me, I’d rather it be you than whoever would come if you were dead, and I was out there again,” Mutu said abruptly. He jerked his head to the side. “I don’t think you’d waste—”

The elevator arrived and Gianluigi threw his weight forward. It forced Mutu to stop talking and to help him into the elevator. Then Gianluigi pushed the button for the ground floor. He carefully shifted his weight back and reached into his pocket till he found his keys, which he gave to Mutu. “I’ll tell you where when we’re in the car,” he said.

Mutu exhaled. He looked up at the dial above the door. “Okay.”

* * *

They pulled up to the back of the building. Gianluigi opened the door and got out, shaking off the hand that brushed his shoulder. He used the car for support as he worked his way around the front and to the other side, where Mutu was standing. “I know the barman and I’m going in to talk to him,” Gianluigi said. “You can come in when he lets you.”

“You…” Then Mutu nodded.

Gianluigi shoved himself off the car, teetered for a moment in the narrow space between it and the alley wall, and then caught himself next to the door. He shuffled closer and knocked, three rapid raps and then a pause before the fourth. The door opened immediately and Gianluigi spoke a few words; the door opened farther and let him in. He stood in a slot between empty crates and full bags of trash till the bartender came. They talked and Gianluigi passed him the second packet of cash. Then Gianluigi made his way further inside as the bartender went out to get Mutu.

The bar had a small kitchen consisting of a sink, a cutting board and a camp-stove. A rack of knives balanced precariously by the sink. Gianluigi reached into his pocket and pulled out a glove, then put it back and pulled out the other one. He used his teeth to get it onto his hand, then limped across and got out a knife. It looked too thin and he put it back and got another one. That one was fine.

He heard Mutu and the bartender pass by and kept his back to them till he couldn’t hear them speaking anymore. Then Gianluigi maneuvered himself out of the kitchen and back into the hall. He eased himself down it and into the right side of its one fork, so that he was by the door to the toilet. Someone was knocking around inside it, emitting deep grunts. Then the flushing of the toilet. The sound of water hitting the sink.

Two quick gunshots from the front. Gianluigi pushed himself up against the wall. He heard cursing. The door was yanked open and a man stepped out. He didn’t look far enough to the left to see Gianluigi before he turned right, peering down the hall. Gianluigi kicked him in the leg, then sliced the knife across the man’s throat as he half-fell back into the toilet. As the man’s weight dragged on the knife, Gianluigi let go of it. He kicked the man’s leg again to make him fall completely inside, then shuffled off as quickly as he could.

Gianluigi had gone a few feet when he heard someone coming down the hall behind him. He turned and Mutu paused, then hurried up and got Gianluigi’s arm over his shoulders. The act pivoted Mutu so he had a clear view of the bathroom. Mutu looked into it, hissed a breath through his teeth, then grabbed Gianluigi by the waist and hustled them down the hall.

“Back up, go right, two blocks, turn into the alley by the deli and then turn left,” Gianluigi said when they were in the car.

Mutu did so, and once they were clear on a main road, Gianluigi gave him another address. His voice broke twice in the middle of it and when he was done, Gianluigi felt at his arm. His sleeve was dry, but when he rolled that up and felt at the bandages, he could just feel the blood coming into the top layer.

“I can take care of it,” Mutu muttered. “This one.”

“This one is one of our private surgeons and if you do, I’ll kill you,” Gianluigi told him. Then Gianluigi put his head back against the seat. “That’s it for the night. When we get there, you can call the garage and tell Mauro. He’ll have you picked up.”

The car never slowed or jerked, but Mutu began drumming his fingers against the wheel. “Picked up for what? To be taken care of?”

Gianluigi closed his eyes. After a moment he remembered and he pulled off his glove and stuffed it in a pocket.

“Who were those people back there?” Mutu asked after a while. His voice was less jittery.

“The two out front were small-time operators, independents we tolerated up till they chose a side. The one in the bathroom was the one who called me to say the cops were doing a sweep tonight.” They stopped a little roughly at a light and Gianluigi winced, then opened his eyes. He made himself sit up.

Mutu drummed his fingers till the light changed. Then he stopped so he could make a turn. “You wanted me to have the gun because you couldn’t shoot it.”

“I can’t. I have a bad arm. I’m not an idiot who’ll try to do something he can’t do, and then be caught because of it,” Gianluigi said, touching his arm. Pain spiked through his leg and he hissed, shifting his weight. “It’s around the corner.”

They pulled up to the gate and waited. Then Mutu put his hand on the door, but a light went on by the house’s front door. Mutu took back his hand and leaned over Gianluigi to roll down the window so Gianluigi could call out when Laudrup appeared on the step. Laudrup came down at once and opened the gate so they could pull into the driveway.

“Picked up so you can get some sleep. You start tomorrow. Mauro will find something for you to do.” Gianluigi pulled himself forward in preparation for getting out of the car. “We need men. You’ve no past affiliations that might threaten our operations, you need the work, and you seem to have a reasonable capacity to learn. Your ideals are a little odd, but I can respect them.”

“You said all you needed was a secretary,” Mutu said after a moment.

Gianluigi snorted, then bit down on his lip as he held his arm close to himself. “I wouldn’t hire a secretary who looked as scruffy as you.”

“Scruffy? I shave.”

“It’s your hair. It’s too long. It makes you look like you can’t take care of yourself,” Gianluigi said. Then Laudrup came to the door and Gianluigi turned away from the conversation.

* * *

Laudrup had to rip out the stitches and then make some new cuts in order to put Gianluigi’s muscles back together correctly. Or so he told Gianluigi afterward—by the time they reached the operating room, Gianluigi was in no position to refuse the chloroform Laudrup offered. He told Gianluigi over breakfast the next day what Gianluigi could and couldn’t do, and then handed Gianluigi the phone so Gianluigi could disregard most of it.

They weren’t able to send round anyone till after lunch, and when they did, it was Tiago. Gianluigi spared himself the worst of it by telling Tiago the mistake with Mutu in the car boot was forgivable, but his patience was still rather frayed by the time they arrived back at the garage. He was undeservedly short to Mauro, who shrugged off Gianluigi’s prompt apology and filled him in on what had happened, and then more justly so to Zlatan, who wanted to waste time introducing Gianluigi to his new partner than looking over the car for Henrik. Paolo gracefully handled matters after Zlatan took offense, but that hardly made up for Zlatan causing the issue in the first place.

Gianluigi finally extricated himself from downstairs matters and made his way up to his office. He stopped in the hall and noted the light creeping out from under the door. Then he leaned himself against the jamb. He turned the knob, jerked his hand clear and opened the door with a kick.

Nothing happened. A chair creaked. A shoe scuffed the floor, and then footsteps came slowly towards the door. A man peered out, saw Gianluigi and stopped.

“Oh,” Gianluigi said after a moment.

Mutu flushed and ran his hand over the top of his head. But the gesture was a little stiff, the arm bent towards himself, as if he wanted to protect his head against something. He had lost the long locks that had shielded his face.

“I really liked my hair. It’s hard to find it as nice as mine back ho—but I cut it, because you said you wouldn’t take me otherwise,” Mutu muttered.

“I said Mauro would find something for you and the hair didn’t come up till afterward.” Gianluigi rolled himself around the jamb and into the office. He waited for Mutu to retreat, then limped up to his desk. Everything seemed in place there.

But next to it, Mutu had brought in another chair and a folding table, and on the table was a half-used pad of paper, several invoices and a pen. A used sandwich wrapper was in the wastebasket, and it smelled like Mutu had been drinking coffee as well.

“Camo said what I’d be doing would be working up north, and I asked if I could work here and he said only if I cleaned up your office,” Mutu said. He worked his way up to Gianluigi, warily eyeing the other man. Then he picked up one of the papers. “Here, this is who’s tried to call you. Figo once, Raúl once, Tiago three times, Del Piero twice.”

Gianluigi took the paper and glanced at it, then flipped it over as he looked back at Mutu. The other man was wearing borrowed clothing and it told in the slightly oversized shirt-collar and the bunched trouser-cuffs, but he was still dressed vastly better than when he’d arrived. The vest properly wrapped the line of his build from shoulders to narrow waist, and the colors weren’t garishly bright against his pale skin.

“I’ll go north if you want me to now. But I wanted to see you first.” Mutu ran his hand through his hair again. The much shorter strands showed the tracks of his fingers, like grass that had been crushed by people driving over it. “I wanted to thank you for last night.”

“For not shooting you?”

“Yes. But not just that—for walking out of this office after telling me,” Mutu said more firmly. He fixed his eyes on Gianluigi. “For walking out and leaving me there.”

The pain in Gianluigi’s leg became too much and he backed up against the desk. He felt for the edge, then sat on it. He looked at the list of calls again. “How far did you get before you heard the cops?”

“I didn’t hear them. I stayed up there and I saw them come in. I saw the outline of the tommygun against one’s coat when he turned. Cops don’t carry that kind of gun.” Then Mutu sighed. “Why would you think I’d try to leave?”

“I’d just told you I could kill you,” Gianluigi said, dropping the paper on the desk. “Just because I hadn’t killed you be—”

“You weren’t going to then either. There’d be no point to killing me,” Mutu interrupted impatiently. “I wasn’t a threat. Even if I’d tried to tell someone about what I saw in here, you and I both know your men in the police force would kill it. I wasn’t anything last night. It would’ve been a waste of time to kill me and then worry about getting rid of my body.”

Gianluigi nodded, then tipped his head. He crossed his bad arm over his chest and cradled it in his other arm. “Then why stay?”

Mutu began to answer, but then took a step forward. That put him close enough to Gianluigi so that he could have touched Gianluigi without fully extending his arm. He lifted his hand and began to brush at hair that was no longer there, then grimaced and turned the hand to scratch at his ear. “Because you left. You could have made me leave, but you left instead. You let me stay.”

He looked hard at Gianluigi, searching for something. Then the phone rang and they both looked at it, and Mutu actually began to put out his hand for it before he saw Gianluigi pick it up. He stepped back, rubbing at his nose, as Gianluigi put the phone between ear and shoulder. “Yes?” Gianluigi said. “Yes, I’m back. No, I’m fine. Only a half-hour. What did Mauro say?”

After another look at Gianluigi, Mutu began to withdraw to his table. Gianluigi reached out and Mutu immediately stopped except for his head, which turned slightly to follow Gianluigi’s fingers as they landed lightly on Mutu’s shoulder. Then Gianluigi bent forward and curled his hand over the shoulder. He pulled the other man back and then lifted his hand to just before Mutu’s left cheek. Mutu glanced at it, bit his lip and then deliberately turned his head so he was looking at Gianluigi. His eyes closed when Gianluigi touched his cheekbone.

“Then that’s probably accurate. I’ll see what I can do, but two of the three cars we still had here are too shot up, and we lost a lot of parts as well.” Gianluigi pulled his hand away. He watched Mutu’s eyes open and shade into disappointment, then shook his head as Mutu tried to back away again. The phone slipped and Gianluigi had to adjust it before he could reach into his pocket. “You could try talking to Ibrahimović or Larsson. If they can get their car back early, I can have it stripped and redone for you.”

Gianluigi took out the gold cross necklace they’d found on Mutu and Mutu’s eyes went to it. They widened in surprise, then narrowed in understanding. Then they widened again as Gianluigi put it around his neck. It was awkward, given Gianluigi’s injured arm, and in the end Mutu had to put up a hand to help with the clasp. Then Gianluigi dropped his arms. Mutu spent a moment tucking the cross beneath his shirt before crossing his arms and looking at the ground between them.

“All right,” Gianluigi said. He turned the phone so it was facing down, then left it on his shoulder as he pressed down the hook to end the call. “I don’t need a secretary. I need you to do what I tell you because you know what you’re doing as well as you did last night. I know it’ll take you a while, but I have to know that you can do that more than once.”

“I,” Mutu started. Then he shut his mouth and thought about it. “I can.”

Gianluigi nodded and dialed another number. “When you’re done sorting those invoices, figure out how much you owe in Romania, and to whom. Or at least who I have to call.”

Mutu’s head went up. He reached towards Gianluigi, then pulled his hand away as Gianluigi put the phone to his ear. Then Mutu smiled and nodded, and sat down at his table.

“And keep your hair short,” Gianluigi added. “You look better.”

“I don’t think so,” Mutu said. He picked up an invoice with one hand and pulled at his hair with the other. “But if I have—”

“Yes.” Gianluigi waited for Mutu to meet his eyes and then nod, and then turned to the phone. “No, I’m fine. I have to push yours back till tomorrow. All right? Good.”


	3. Number Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raúl’s been around a long time. He knows how it goes.

Fernando’s hair was still damp from his shower and on the pillow it swirled in clumps instead of fanning out about his head. Then Raúl turned on the bedside lamp and he could see the faint wet ring in the pillowcase, about an inch outwards from the hair. He touched it with his forefinger and Fernando opened his eyes, then narrowed them against the bright light.

“Good night,” Fernando said after a moment. He sat up and his teeth flashed in the dark that still prevailed above the light’s ellipse. “You settle City Hall?”

“As well as it’ll be settled tonight.” Raúl turned around and sat down on the edge of the bed. He bent over and pulled off one shoe. Something pulled at his shirt-collar and he tilted his head so Fernando could undo his tie. “Anyone call?”

Both of Fernando’s hands settled on Raúl’s shoulders. They rested for a moment, then squeezed gently and tugged backwards, taking Raúl’s coat with them. “Ah, no.”

“No?” Raúl said sharply. He pulled his arms forward and took off his socks. He put them in his shoes and pushed those aside, then put his hands on his knees and pushed himself up. His back ached and he paused to breathe out slowly.

“The usual,” Fernando said more reluctantly. “Figo, but he called back to say he didn’t need to talk to you anymore. Rui Costa.”

Raúl turned around and took his coat from Fernando. He got up from the bed and laid it over a chair, then took off his belt and draped that on top of it. Then he began to unbutton his shirt. “Pep?”

The bed shook as Fernando fell back onto it, then let out a soft sigh. The other man didn’t speak. He looked at the ceiling, his hands restlessly stroking up and down the sheets on either side of him.

After a moment, Raúl left off his shirt. Instead he took off his trousers and boxers, then came over to the bed. The sheets were surprisingly cold and goosebumps spread over his legs when he swung them onto the mattress. He pulled himself up into a kneeling position by Fernando. “When does he want to see me?”

“He wants to see you more often than Figo and me combined, since he’s come back,” Fernando muttered. He turned onto his side and faced Raúl. Then he reached out and cupped his hand over Raúl’s knee. His thumb ran over the edge of the joint and into the hollow on the side, where it rubbed gently back and forth. “Whenever you’re back. No, don’t call—he said he’d come over.”

“But I should let him know I can see him,” Raúl said.

Fernando laughed. His grip on Raúl’s knee tightened. Then he sat up, his torso lifting in a smooth movement. He bent forward and his half-dry bangs fluttered into his eyes, then stuck to Raúl’s eyebrows when Fernando dipped close. “Oh, I think Guardiola’s already on his way. He’s got his own way of knowing where you are. No need to be polite to him at this hour.”

“Mor—”

Fernando put his hands around Raúl’s face and kissed him. Then kept kissing him, mouth clinging stubbornly as his hands fell to Raúl’s shoulders, pushed under the sides of Raúl’s collar. Raúl twisted his head but he couldn’t break the kiss. He gave up the effort and the pressure of Fernando’s mouth immediately turned him back into it, and then his hands went to Fernando’s waist. He pushed his thumbs into the muscle of the man’s belly and Fernando yanked his hands down Raúl’s arms, forcing the shirt-sleeves to come with him.

The last few buttons were still done up and they resisted briefly, then gave way. That slight jerk shifted Fernando’s mouth and Raúl tilted his head back, then to the side. When Fernando came after him, he ducked and then pressed his palms to the other man’s chest. “If Pep’s coming—”

“For God’s sake, if he comes in now he won’t see anything new, and I have to leave. I should’ve left half an hour ago but I wanted to see you first,” Fernando said roughly. He shook his hands free of Raúl’s shirt and dragged them down to the bed, his head dipping to rub against Raúl’s breast. His mouth grazed Raúl’s chest, then pressed hotly over Raúl’s nipple and he held Raúl down by the hips as Raúl gasped. Then he worked his way down the line of Raúl’s torso, his words scratching their irritation into Raúl’s skin. “I’ve got to throw a welcoming party at the train station.”

“What kind of party? Mori? Who—which is he?” Raúl put his hands on Fernando’s hair, but his fingers sunk into it and he pushed the man’s head down onto himself instead of away. A stubbled chin rasped over the thinner skin around his bellybutton and he closed his eyes, hissed through his teeth. “Mori.”

Fernando lifted his head. He smiled again, the dark making it bright while the edge of the lamplight just glided over his eye, giving it an edge like a razor. His hands petted at Raúl’s thighs. “Ah, it’s the knife-man, remember? From Sicily. That’s why you’re sending me, so I can bring him an ax and show him we already know about cutting.”

“Mori,” Raúl said again. He levered himself up on his elbow and stretched out his arm.

The smile vanished from Fernando’s face as soon as Raúl’s fingertips touched his cheek. He looked at Raúl over Raúl’s hand, through the spaces between its fingers. Then he twisted his head about and fervently caressed the hand with his mouth. His tongue slipped under a nail and then around a knuckle; he pushed his hands up Raúl’s thighs and Raúl drew in his legs so his knees closed around Fernando. The other man only dove in further, leaving Raúl’s hand with a sucking sigh only to drop his mouth on Raúl’s prick. Raúl forced himself up further and put his hands back in Fernando’s hair. He rocked desperately that way, half-up and half-down, and pulled roughly at the thick strands between his fingers, but the other man was without mercy.

* * *

“It’s perfect. Stop fussing, you’ve it right. You always do.” Fernando bent and kissed Raúl’s left cheek, then crossed behind Raúl to the other side of the sink. He picked up a comb and applied it to his hair, examined the results and frowned. Then he changed the angle of the comb and tried again. “I’ll be done around six in the morning. Should I come back?”

Raúl dropped his hands from his tie. He looked at himself in the bathroom mirror, then adjusted one cuff-link and pushed at the side of his waist, to tuck a bit of shirt under his vest. “You can, but I won’t see you. I’ll have Aldermen Hierro and Zidane in the morning and then lunch with the governor’s treasurer. Then I have to go talk to Del Piero and Buffon—there was some kind of attempt last night and I need to know what happened there. And I’ll see what Pep wants. It might add to what I have.”

The comb bounced off the sink, then rattled into it. Fernando retrieved it and laid it aside as Raúl looked at him. He stared at his hands, then raised his head and smiled into the mirror. His eyes hurt, his mouth was amused. He half-turned and kissed Raúl again on the temple, with his hand ghosting carefully over the small of Raúl’s back, too light to cause any wrinkles. “I need a weapon to be so ruthless,” he said. Then he snorted and passed back behind Raúl, out the doorway. “But you let me see you sometimes. That’s enough for me.”

“Mori. Fernando.” Then Raúl turned.

The other man was gone. After a moment, Raúl turned back to the mirror. He saw that Fernando had moved a curl over his temple and smoothed it back with a finger, then dropped his gaze to the sink: watch, knife, wallet. He picked them up one by one and put them where they should be put on his person. Then he went out of the bathroom.

* * *

When Raúl came into the room, Pep was stalking viciously across the back of it, his hands clenched behind himself. Then he pivoted and saw Raúl. His arms swung forward and down and his fingers spread, and his smile pushed out most of the tension in his body. He came up and embraced Raúl, then let his hands slip from Raúl’s upper arms to shoulders before he pulled away.

“What’s happened?” Raúl said.

Pep’s face hardened. “Enough’s enough. Ibrahimović, Buffon—I’m done.”

He turned back and slapped his hand down on the top of a chair, then dragged it along as he stalked towards the far wall. Raúl cleared his throat and Pep whirled sharply. Then he came striding back, eyes glinting. He passed Raúl and twisted as he did to jab a finger at Raúl’s direction.

“We can’t go on like this. It’s more unstable now to try to keep the peace than it would be to declare open war, and war _is_ what this is,” Pep said. His eyes widened in time with the harsh emphases of his voice. He circled Raúl as he talked. “I’ve called a meeting of the Board, but it’s a mere formality. I’ve already made up my mind.”

“You’re only one member of the board,” Raúl pointed out quietly. He pivoted to keep his face to Pep. A few times the other man’s finger stabbed close enough to touch him, but Raúl paid it no mind.

“No, I’m not. Del Piero’s with me, not that he’s hard to sway. Even without them coming onto his home turf, and that was enough for Buffon, who really matters there.” Pep abruptly stopped, then reversed himself. He turned away and grabbed a nearby chair, then twisted over its top to face Raúl again. His fingers sank deep into the chair’s upholstery, till they were white against the rich black leather. “Larsson’s with me. Rui Costa agrees—I had to tell _him_ we had to wait for the meeting, even if it’s only a stamp on the decision. Mourinho’s no longer around to matter.”

Raúl nodded and rubbed at the side of his face. In the hall he heard someone approach the door and he looked at it. The footsteps came up till it seemed the person had to knock or pull at the knob, then vanished. Several seconds later, the _front_ door opened and Fernando left.

“Figo,” Raúl said, returning to Pep. “What does he say?”

“He’s for it,” Pep said curtly. Then he exhaled roughly and pushed himself off the chair. Its feet rattled on the floor. “What about you?”

The chair was still rocking when Raúl came up to it and put his hand on its top. He settled it and then moved it aside, so there was nothing between him and the other man. “I’m counting heads. What did Figo say?”

Pep glanced at Raúl, then dropped his head and closed his eyes. He smiled thinly at the floor. Then his head went back and he looked at Raúl with restless, amused eyes. “Luís said, ‘Pep, if you think it’s necessary, then I can’t disagree with you.’”

It was true that that wasn’t a denial. Raúl glanced to the left, where the phone sat on a table. Then he lifted his gaze to the mirror above the phone. In the mirror he watched Pep’s amusement fade. The other man scuffed his foot through the thick carpet, then scraped his hand over his neck. He stared at Raúl as if his will could draw the correct reply out of Raúl.

“There’s Giuly down on the southwest.” Raúl looked back at Pep and paused when Pep jerked backwards.

“And Cruyff, even though he retired years ago. He won’t come back for this, and Giuly will take it with good grace. He may still have ties with them but he knows when a line’s been crossed, and he knows where the winner will be. Thuram too, and that’s all of them,” Pep said. He had calmed a little. He took a deep breath, then put out his hand and stroked it down Raúl’s left shoulder. His hand rose again and touched higher than Raúl’s shoulder, above the edge of Raúl’s collar. “Save for you. What do you think’s wrong with it? I’m not doing this out of anger, though I am angry. It’s what has to be done and you—”

“I know,” Raúl said. He bent his head and pressed his hand to his mouth. The underside of his chin pushed into the edge of Pep’s palm. “I know. But it’s good that you called the meeting first.”

Pep came nearer. He stooped and looked into Raúl’s face. Then his hand dropped as he exhaled. His body sagged from top to bottom as relief replaced the tension in it, and he smiled with real appreciation. “I’m sorry the notice is so short. It’ll be hard for you to square it away. But the things that led me to this choice came on short notice too,” he said. His fingers covered the lapel of Raúl’s suit-jacket. “If you need help, you only have to ask.”

“I know.” Raúl smiled and lifted his hand. He laid it over Pep’s hand, then took hold of Pep’s wrist and pulled down the other man’s arm. Then he moved around Pep towards the phone. “But no, you’ll need your men. I’ll be at the meeting.”

He put his hand down on the phone and Pep put his hand on Raúl’s back, to the left of the spine where it began to curve inwards. Then he moved his hand to the back of Raúl’s neck. His thumb passed off the stiff edge of the shirt-collar and pressed into skin as he leaned over. He kissed Raúl on the temple, and then handed the phone to Raúl.

“I’ll send you the details when we have them. We’ll keep it away from your political contacts,” Pep said. His hand left Raúl’s neck as he turned away. When Raúl looked up, Pep’s back was already to him, and Pep had his hand on the knob of the door. “Look out for the message.”

Raúl nodded. He watched the other man go, then began to dial a number. Then he put down the phone and looked again at the door, where Iker now stood. Iker coughed and then jerked his chin at the hall. “Villa’s here. He says he needs a room for the night.”

“Call him a taxi, and have the concierge put it—”

“No, he wants to stay here,” Iker said. “He says he’ll explain why, but just to you.”

Raúl looked at the phone in his hand. He closed his eyes, then opened them. He took the phone off the hook and started to dial again. “Did he and Pep see each other?”

“They passed in the entryway. Guardiola asked if he was fine and Villa said yes, he didn’t need to talk now. He’d take care of it. Then Guardiola left,” Iker replied.

The way Iker modulated his voice, he sounded almost neutral about it. Then Raúl put the phone to his ear and all he could hear was its ringing. “Show Villa into a guest room. Tell him if it’s not urgent, it has to wait. I have other meetings this morning.”

* * *

“Zinedine!” Figo strode into the room with his arms raised. He smiled broadly and fit his embrace into the other man’s, then offered a slightly more reserved welcome to Hierro. Then he stepped back and nodded to the room at large. “I’m sorry if I was interrupting something serious, but I found myself in the neighborhood and decided to drop in.”

Neither of the other two men took offense at his entrance. They smiled and shared a laugh, and didn’t look away when Raúl quietly excused himself to make a phone call. When he left, he turned his back on Hierro slapping his thigh and Zidane running his hand through Figo’s hair.

The phone call was real enough. So was the short list of other calls that had come in while Raúl had been occupied with the aldermen. He read through the messages as he returned Rui Costa’s call. Something at the end of the hall attracted his attention and he looked up, then gestured that he didn’t need Sergio. The other man, accompanied by Miguel, nodded and slipped out the back door.

Rui Costa wanted to cancel his meeting, which was an unexpected surprise. But he also wanted to send Quaresma instead of Nuno Gomes and Raúl had to insist otherwise. They settled the matter but Raúl put down the phone feeling less than pleased about the result. He stood in the hall, his hand on the phone. Then he breathed in and went to the kitchen.

There he got the wastebasket and burned up the note of messages over it. The flame rapidly ate through the paper. He dropped it and behind the bright yellow flame was Villa’s face.

Raúl started. Villa’s brows lifted. Then the other man snorted and threw himself backwards into a chair. He was in his shirt-sleeves with his tie hanging undone about his neck and the wings of his collar pulled up; his suit-jacket was draped carefully over the chair beside him. He had dirty nails. “I was wondering if you’d ever eat,” he said.

“If you’re hungry, you can ask anyone to help you. Or you can help yourself,” Raúl replied. He went over to the icebox and looked inside, then turned to see Iker come into the kitchen. Iker looked disapprovingly at Villa till Raúl asked him to bring up a bottle of Figo’s favorite wine from the basement.

Villa turned in his seat to follow Iker’s slow steps to the door. He hung his arm over the top of the chair and his hand dangled so its half-curled fingers grazed their knuckles against the table. “I ate, thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” The icebox needed restocking, especially if Figo wanted anything. But the lunch with the treasurer couldn’t be missed so Raúl couldn’t let the other men linger too long in the parlor. “What did you want to tell me?”

“Who’d you have breakfast with?” Villa retorted. His arm slid down the curve of the chair, then pulled back so he could grip its side. He twisted around and looked at Raúl. “I’ve been here since I came in and I didn’t see your breakfast go out. I think I saw Mori when I was walking up the street—”

“He’s already left, he has a job.” Raúl closed the icebox and wrote a note on the pad attached to its door. “Villa, why are you here? Is there a problem? Does it have to do with what you and Ibrahimović—”

Villa shook his head. He looked sour. “I’m fine, thanks for asking. You’re the only one. Everyone else wants to know about him.”

“Well, he was the target. You only dropped in at the last moment,” Raúl said, glancing at a clock on the wall. He’d been away from his guests nearly ten minutes, too long. He looked at Villa again, then turned and headed for the door. “We’ll have to talk later. I’ve people here.”

“Oh, I know,” Villa said sardonically. “You always have them.”

Raúl ignored him and went back to the parlor, where Zidane and Hierro were both on their feet and Hierro was calling for his coat and hat. They were still speaking with Figo and didn’t see Raúl at first, allowing him time to grimace and then smooth his face. Then he came up to them and expressed his regrets at their departure, and asked by the way if they’d concluded what he hoped they’d concluded. Zidane immediately said of course; Hierro looked a little more wary but nodded.

They took their leave and Raúl saw them into the entryway. He watched them go out onto the front walk, then came back into the parlor. “Do you want anything?” he asked.

Figo was sitting on the couch. It was facing the door but when Raúl had entered, the other man had had his head down and his hands clasped between his knees. He looked up at Raúl’s words, his face much more somber than when speaking to Zidane. Then he shrugged and put out his left hand. He patted the cushion by him. “Sit.”

“Pep was here earlier,” Raúl said. He came around the coffee table to that side of the couch, but didn’t sit. “He said he’d already talked to you.”

“And Rui Costa, and Buffon and Larsson and all the rest. He’s been a busy man this past night. Too busy for me—I could hardly talk, I had Zlatan in a room down the hall.” Figo put his hands on his knees and pressed on them, his elbows making right angles in opposite directions. Then he sighed and straightened his arms till his back was pushed well into the couch. He looked up at Raúl again. “Sit. You look more tired than me.”

Raúl touched the arm of the couch, then lifted his hand and turned around. He sat down. In the hall, the phone rang twice before someone answered it.

“I think he’s come to the right decision. I would have told him otherwise.”

“I know,” Raúl said.

“But he’s a little angry about things at the moment,” Figo added reflectively. He rolled his head against the couch and looked at Raúl. “He was more worked up when he saw me. He broke one of my chairs. But it looks as if your furniture survived the visit…”

After a moment Raúl smiled and nodded. He put his arm across his thigh and leaned on it, then hooked two fingers into the collar of his shirt. The stiff starched cloth barely gave when he tugged on it, allowing only a whisper more breath into his lungs.

“He’s angry. He hasn’t lost his head. He might lose his temper with us, but that’s just a moment, just between friends. Out there he’s not going to lose it. Not that or the larger scheme of things,” Figo said.

“I didn’t think he would.” Raúl took his fingers out of his collar and turned forward. Then he sighed and put his hands down to either side of himself.

He began to rise but something caught at his back. It pulled at his suit-jacket till he sat down again. His right leg came down on Figo’s knee and Raúl stopped, balancing with difficulty on the toes of one foot and the fingertips of one hand on the sofa cushions. Then Figo let go of his clothes, and instead put his arm around Raúl’s waist. He kept the grip loose enough so that Raúl could turn in it.

“He would’ve before he had to leave the country,” Figo said. His arm still pushed into Raúl’s side, even after Raúl had let all of his weight come down on Figo’s knee. It drew Raúl down Figo’s thigh till Raúl was leaning against the other man, and then Figo slipped one hand up under the back of Raúl’s coat. “You know that.”

The layers of Raúl’s undershirt and shirt and vest kept Raúl from feeling Figo’s hand as much more than a slight pressure. Raúl put his hand on Figo’s shoulder and Figo tugged once at the strap that crossed the back of Raúl’s vest. Then he lowered his hand and brought it up again, under the vest. That garment was more closely fitted and Figo had to tease his fingers under it, pushing harder and longer so the warmth of his fingertips made its way through Raúl’s shirt. A shiver went up and down Raúl’s spine and he didn’t resist it.

Figo’s gaze ran the length of him, appreciative but considering. Then Figo sighed and shook his head. He bent forward, looking regretful, and his hand dropped out of Raúl’s vest to shape itself to the curves of Raúl’s buttocks. “I’m sorry you had to take him on by yourself. I didn’t think he’d come so early, or I would have kept him. Would have come with him.”

“It was fine. I can’t disagree with him,” Raúl said. He smiled at the way Figo cocked his head, then ducked his head as a laugh unexpectedly made its way out of him. Then he drew a deep, sobering breath and shifted his hand off Figo’s shoulder onto the couch. “After I’d talked to him about it.”

“He wasn’t impatient enough to threaten you, was he?” Then Figo exhaled irritably. He looked straight ahead, clenching and unclenching his jaw as his hand rhythmically worked its way from Raúl’s left hip to his right. The frustration was genuine. The petting might look absentminded but was not; when Raúl moved, Figo’s hand also moved, changing to circular rubs against the top of Raúl’s hip. “You know he’ll apologize later.”

“And that he meant it, and he’d do it again. He thought it was that necessary and he’ll go that far when he thinks that.” Raúl shrugged and looked at his hand resting on the couch’s top.

Figo put his arm back around Raúl’s waist and Raúl started. Then he turned to look at the other man, but Figo was still looking forward. He pulled at Raúl till Raúl put his head down on the top of the sofa, his shoulder against Figo’s shoulder. After a moment Raúl moved his head so it was resting on his arm instead of the couch. That way he was a little more elevated and his torso wasn’t cramped.

“He’s a little different since he’s come back. I think you’ve noticed. He doesn’t think it’s enough to know how things work. He has to be the one working them,” Figo said. He sounded almost sorry for it. But then he turned his head and looked at Raúl, and there was a smile on his face. “You knew that without needing an exile to beat it into your head. I dread the day you two _do_ find it possible to disagree.”

“Luís, we disagree all the time. We find ways to live with it. I think we always will.” The world dimmed and Raúl frowned, then made himself open his eyes more widely. He saw half of Figo’s expression and offered the other man half a smile in return as he pushed himself up. “It sounds like something in a love-song. But he’s better at making people live with certain things, and I’m better at figuring out how to live with them. We both know that. That’s all.”

Figo looked at him again. Then he put both hands on Raúl’s waist and pulled Raúl forward. Raúl could have put his arm between them. But instead he leaned hard on the arm above Figo’s head, relying on it to catch him as he dropped towards Figo. A burning ache shot up the limb as their mouths touched, then slowly faded as he adjusted to the kiss. Figo’s hand went up his back and cradled his head, fingers thrusting through Raúl’s hair to graze his ear. Then Figo pushed him back and helped him to his feet.

“Never mind anything you heard from Rui over the past night. I’ll take care of it,” Figo said. “I think you’ll be busy enough without that.”

“What is it?” Raúl asked automatically.

Of course Figo didn’t answer him. Instead the other man took hold of Raúl’s lapels and pushed them out of the way. Then he put his hands inside Raúl’s suit-jacket as Raúl grabbed the lapels. He looked at Raúl, brow cocked, before straightening Raúl’s vest with a swift tug. He took his hands out and Raúl smoothed down his suit-jacket.

“But I’ll take a quick snack off you before I go,” Figo told him, turning towards the door. He missed the hand Raúl raised and Raúl was too late in turning the gesture to a grab to stop Figo. The other man went out the door and turned down the hall. “I was up all night. Buffon went straight out after getting shot and added another three bodies to the accounting. Well, he did one, that turncoat former cop, and then he let one of Mourinho’s old men do the other two. At least he’s handling Mutu’s papers, since I’ve Maldini’s…”

“Luís,” Raúl said.

Figo put his hand on the kitchen door and turned around. “Wasn’t Mori here?”

“Earlier.” Raúl rubbed at his nose. He was too thrown by the question to bother with his own warning. “Much earlier. He left while I was with Pep.”

“I’m sorry,” Figo said. “I should’ve kept Pep a little longer.”

“Fernando took Pep’s call. He would have had to, since I was out all night entertaining a senator. It would have been no matter what you did,” Raúl shrugged.

Figo turned back to the door. “All the same, I’m sorry.”

He pushed it open and then Raúl remembered what he’d meant to say. Raúl hissed through his teeth and Figo went through the door, then turned around in an empty kitchen. He looked about before exclaiming delightedly and pouncing on something on the table: the bottle of wine Raúl had had brought up for him.

Nothing else was on the table. Raúl slowly walked into the room, looking about, but everything seemed in place—no. A glass in the sink. He picked it up and let it hang from his fingers.

“Will you sit with me?” When Raúl looked up, Figo had come to the counter and was rummaging in one of the drawers. Then the other man produced a corkscrew. He set the bottle on the counter and proceeded to apply the corkscrew to it. “You look a little put-upon. A little meat and wine would help.”

“I’m having lunch with the treasurer,” Raúl said. He turned on the tap and rinsed out the glass, then set it in the rack by the sink. Then he came over to Figo. He put his hands on Figo’s arms and kissed the man, once on the cheek and once on the mouth. “Help yourself. You know where things are.”

“I do,” Figo laughed. He dropped the corkscrew, the cork still impaled on it, to the side and let his hand roam up and down Raúl’s side as Raúl tried to pass him. “All right, I’ll see you later. And I’ll see Pep first. He’ll be in a better mood afterwards.”

Raúl couldn’t help a smile, but he made sure to keep moving towards the door. He avoided Figo’s last, half-hearted pat at him and went into the hall, where Iker was waiting. Iker told Raúl the car was out front, then went into the kitchen while Raúl looked over himself in a mirror. Then he went to the coat-closet by the front door. He got out his coat and hat, and after a look at the sky, an umbrella.

Something reflected in the panes of glass set into the front door caught Raúl’s attention as he put his hand on the knob. He paused, then looked over his shoulder.

Behind him rose the stairs to the second floor. They went straight to a small landing, then twisted left. Slightly above the landing, Villa was leaning over the balustrade. He had his side to Raúl but was facing Raúl. His hand hooked over the railing and from it depended a hat.

Raúl waited. Villa didn’t call out. The car honked from the drive and Raúl turned enough so that he could put one hand on the door. A snort drifted down from the darkened stairs. The hat flipped up and came right-side down on Villa’s head. His arm lingered a little longer as he adjusted it; Raúl turned the rest of the way and went outside.

* * *

The lunch with the treasurer went well, despite the last-minute additions to the conversation that Raúl had to introduce. It made the bill much more expensive but Raúl paid that without a flinch, or a moment’s second thought.

They had it at one of the fanciest hotels in town, the kind of place where one stood at the front door till the doorman had gone forward and had fought it out with the chauffeur as to who opened the car door. That gave Raúl ample time to observe the extra man in the front seat. Then he nodded to the winner, walked forward and got into the car’s backseat.

Villa twisted around and began to speak before the door had even been shut. He had to stop when the sound of it cut him off. Then he exhaled loudly. He dropped his head and shook it, and curiously the corners of his mouth seemed to be turning upwards.

Salgado got into the car just as Villa was lifting his head again. This time Villa waited till they’d pulled back from the curb and were on the road. “I’m not here to assassinate you. If I was, Salgado would be dead already.”

“Not likely,” Salgado grunted. He stolidly continued driving as Villa shot him a glance.

“What are you doing here?” Raúl said. He waited for Villa to look back at him before he continued. “You’re supposed to be lying low. You and Ibrahimović—and he doesn’t seem to be having any trouble—”

Villa snorted. “That’s because he’s got company to entertain him. With big green eyes and a lovely Italian accent.”

“If you want to bother someone, you can call up David Silva from the docks,” Salgado suggested. “He’s not doing anything except cleaning out bars with Mata and Cazorla.”

“Leave the kid alone,” Villa snapped. His fingers clawed into the top of the seat. “He popped out three fingers last time he went out, breaking that fat bastard’s neck. And if you start trying to call him a drunk, I’ll help hold you down for him. You probably down more shots than him just trying to face up to yourself in the morning.”

Salgado growled. Raúl collected himself from his annoyance enough to rap sharply on the door. The car fell silent and Raúl stared at the back of Salgado’s head till it abruptly dropped. Then he turned back to Villa. “What are you doing here?”

“I need to talk to you and you keep putting me off,” Villa said. The ire in his voice hadn’t faded any. He’d only redirected it. “It’s important.”

“I’m not putting you off. I had appointments before you came and I can’t miss them without a good reason. Can you give me a good reason?” Raúl asked. Then he shook his head. “No, never mind that. Does it have to do with business?”

Villa stared at him. The man’s mouth opened, then shut up tightly as Villa leaned to the side, pressing against the headrest. He looked at Raúl as if he blamed Raúl for his sudden reticence.

“Then I’ll talk to you when I have time. Right now I’m trying to—” Raúl ran out of breath. He didn’t want to gasp so he stopped talking. He looked out the window.

The front seat creaked and Raúl turned his head. He watched the back of Villa’s head move from side to side as the other man sat down. Then it disappeared behind the headrest. He looked at the headrest.

“Another few minutes to the house,” Salgado said. “You want me to pull up in front or behind?”

“You can go in the back.” Raúl slouched in his seat. He rubbed his temple, then pressed his forefinger and thumb into the inside corners of his eyes, trying to fight off the waves of fatigue he felt. “Go ahead and park it in the garage. I’ll be inside for a while. Villa, if you’ve nothing to do but wait on me, you can call David Silva.”

Villa’s headrest rattled under a blow. “I don’t need you to tell me how to waste my time.”

“Then don’t waste your time. I might need him to greet a few people, and he should start getting ready,” Raúl snapped.

The profile of Villa’s brow and nose appeared on the left of the headrest. “I thought you liked having Morientes greet people.”

“Fernando is busy, and anyway, I think David Silva would be better suited. If you don’t want to call—”

“I’ll call.” Villa made his reply like he was stabbing himself. He turned forward again. “I’ll have to borrow your line. What do I say to him?”

“Be ready and waiting,” Raúl said after a moment. “He’ll have details within the week. They’ll all be fast in and outs. No lingering. No guns either. Knife or garrote.”

The other man grunted. They pulled up around the back of Raúl’s house and waited for the gate to be opened. Then Salgado drove them through it. He stopped by the back door to let out Raúl, and Villa got out as well. Raúl glanced at Villa, then looked up at the stoop. Iker was standing there with the phone. He had to hold the door open with his foot to keep the phone’s cord from being caught in it. He lifted it as Raúl came up the walk and the phone began to ring. Raúl took the next step faster.

* * *

A complication involving the mess Mourinho had left in Chelsea took up most of Raúl’s afternoon. He had to put off his meeting with Del Piero and Buffon till the evening. Del Piero was less than happy, citing a prior engagement, but after some pressing he agreed to break it. Buffon was indifferent, in that he disliked having anything disrupt his work but that he disliked all disruptions equally, whenever they came.

Raúl ate dinner standing up by the telephone, then managed a nap after that. He fell on his bed still fully clothed, with only his belt and his collar loosened. He didn’t remember to take off his shoes.

When he woke up, he could flex his toes against the footboard. His socks were gone too. His hand was already beneath his pillow and he slid it a little farther so he could touch the gun hidden between the mattress and the wall. Someone else was on the bed with him, sitting up against the headboard. The lights were still off.

“It went fine,” Fernando said. Then the light went on and he looked down at Raúl through the dark spots dancing across him, frowning. “I surprised you? I thought you knew when it was me.”

He was wounded. It showed in his eyes and in his voice, and in how he stiffened when Raúl pulled his hand out from under the pillow. Raúl looked away and sat up slowly. “I’m sorry. I thought you were—”

“Guardiola again?”

“No, Villa.” Then Raúl started. He lifted his head sharply and watched Fernando finish out the laugh. It was light and incredulous; it knew immediately not to suspect. “I’m sorry. He came here this morning, saying he needed to talk to me, but all he’s done is follow me around. He keeps appearing when I least expect it.”

Fernando laughed again and ran his hand over the side of Raúl’s hair. A few strands snagged on the ring he wore and he stopped his hand so Raúl could untangle them. His fingers curled and pretended to catch at Raúl’s fingers. “Even in your bedroom? Is he still here? Which room? I’ll go tell him I’ll throw him out a window if he tries that.”

“Mori,” Raúl said. He freed the last hair and then wrapped his hand around Fernando’s hand. He brought that down into his lap and the other man moved closer, rolling onto his shoulder. “I thought you liked him, besides.”

“Oh, I like talking to him. He can be fun sometimes, when he’s not upset at something. Sometimes because he’s upset at something.” Fernando shrugged. It made him slide down the headboard so his mouth nearly touched Raúl’s shoulder. He rubbed his thumb over the back of Raúl’s hand. “But he can overdo it, and I’m fine with telling him when he does. I’m nice to him because I want to be, not because I need to be.”

Raúl smiled and pulled Fernando’s hand back up. He kissed one of the knuckles and Fernando sucked in air past the side of Raúl’s throat. Then Fernando leaned closer. His fingers tightened around Raúl’s hand. He pressed his mouth to Raúl’s jaw, throat, and then he twisted off Raúl; Raúl looked across the bed and the line of Fernando’s body turned like a seal in the water.

Fernando lifted their hands above his head, which he put on Raúl’s lap so he faced Raúl’s stomach. Then he lowered their hands. They touched Raúl’s chest above the heart before moving right, to the nearest shirt button. Fernando moved his fingers so he had two free and worked the button through its hole, then lifted their hands to the next. When that was done, he skipped down to the third.

“You used to like Pep too,” Raúl said more quietly. He raised his other hand and stroked Fernando’s hair. He started behind the other man’s ear with his thumb running along its warm curve, then moved down to Fernando’s neck. Then again. “Why now?”

“I don’t know.” Fernando’s eyes half-closed. He came to Raúl’s vest and left off the shirt to unbutton it. Then he went back to the shirt. “No, I do. You know too. Since he’s been back, he’s taken over. It might as well not be a board. You don’t have a board when one man tells you what to do.”

Raúl stopped stroking Fernando’s hair. He worked his hand free of Fernando’s and laid it on the other man’s bicep.

Fernando grimaced. His fingers uncurled from around the last button and pushed apart the halves of Raúl’s shirt and vest. They spread over the undershirt beneath those. “I don’t care so much about that. You offered me a seat on it and I said no, and I’ll still say no. Things will get run the way they need to. But it’s not just the board.”

“Pep could never separate business and the rest of his life. His life _is_ the business,” Raúl said. “He’s always been like that.”

“But you’re not business,” Fernando muttered. His fingers curled again. Their nails caught in the undershirt and stretched it as they pulled down. “He did know that before.”

Raúl looked at the hand he had on Fernando’s arm. He turned it over and pressed its knuckles into the back of Fernando’s arm, then slid them up onto Fernando’s shoulder. Then he turned his hand again and ran it slowly down the length of Fernando’s back. It sank beneath his touch, then bucked up sharply as Fernando inhaled and pushed his face into Raúl’s stomach. Raúl stopped his hand. He looked down at Fernando’s head, then leaned over and began to pull at the other man’s shirt.

“Stop it, it’s nothing.” Fernando rolled over and gazed up at Raúl. He smiled and lifted his hand, brushing its curled fingers against the underside of Raúl’s chin. “Pulled a muscle on a backswing. I’m not so young these days.”

“You’re old enough for me,” Raúl said quietly.

“You’re older than me, I think sometimes.” Then Fernando turned his head away. He rubbed his cheek against Raúl’s leg. Then he lifted his head and twisted his body around to face the same way. He put his head back down and closed his eyes. “Stay with me. You’re as tired as I am and you could use the rest. Stay a while.”

Raúl still had to see Del Piero and Buffon. He began to stroke Fernando’s hair again, and Fernando’s eyes stayed shut. The other man’s breathing slowed. His arms relaxed, and one lolled so its hand loosely grasped at Raúl’s leg.

When Fernando was asleep, Raúl gently lifted the man’s head and slipped out from under it. He bent over the other man and kissed Fernando on the side of the brow while buttoning up his shirt; Fernando stirred a little, wrinkles appearing where Raúl’s mouth had touched. But the clock said Raúl had no time. He gathered up the rest of his clothes and went out the door.

* * *

Villa came into the entryway as Raúl was setting his hat on his head. The other man half-turned, returning Iker’s stare as the other man passed him on the way out. Then he leaned his shoulder against the wall. He’d showered and shaved and changed his clothes. “I called David Silva.”

Raúl glanced at the other man, then peered at the reflected stickpin in the mirror before him. “So?”

“He’ll be ready.” Villa watched a few seconds longer with hooded eyes. Then he turned on his shoulder and looked upstairs. “I saw Morientes come in.”

“He’s sleeping,” Raúl said. Then he dropped his hands to the table under the mirror. He took a deep breath, then looked at Villa.

The other man coughed belatedly. It blotted out the end of his laugh but not the beginning. Then he lifted his head and there was no repentance in his eyes. “Does Iker have to tell him when you’ll be back?”

“I have a minute now if you’d like to talk,” Raúl said calmly. “What’s bothering you?”

Villa shut his mouth. His eyes flashed and he stiffened so sharply that Raúl had braced himself before realizing that the other man didn’t mean to strike at him. Then Villa snorted. He pushed himself from the wall and spun on his toes, heading for the kitchen. “It’d take longer than your precious minute. Have a good night.”

“The same to you.” Raúl pulled his coat shut around himself and turned to the door. He pulled it open, saw Salgado waiting in the car, and headed out.

* * *

When Raúl returned, the newsboys were just beginning to cry out the latest headlines. Another one about murders and gangland, he noted in disappointment.

Iker had taken in their paper delivery but had left it on the table by the door. Raúl glanced at it, then raised his head. The voices hadn’t stopped, although they were more muted. Their timbres had changed as well, and their source—they weren’t the newsboys, but people talking in one of the backrooms. Then a laugh came, high and joyous. It was one Raúl knew.

He picked up the paper and went into the hall. The lights were still off save for in one room near the end, on the left, where a half-open door spilled out some light. Then things dimmed as someone passed before the door. They turned and the contrast was too severe to permit details, but the silhouette was enough to place it.

Raúl stood there and weighed the paper. He listened to the snatches of Fernando’s and Villa’s conversation, then turned away. Halfway up the stairs, Iker met him and by then Raúl already had the paper open. He skimmed the subheadings while he and Iker caught each other up on events and hashed out the day’s schedule.

Iker left Raúl at the top of the stairs. The financial and the society pages were still left to read, but Raúl dropped the paper on a chair inside his bedroom. He shut the door and raised his hand to his tie. Then he stopped again. He looked at the unmade sheets on the bed. They laid in careless but still recognizable lines. Fernando’s feet there, his head there. His one arm thrown out and the other pulled in, and then the flat stretch of mattress on the other side of the dent his body had left.

Raúl turned away. He undressed on his way to the bathroom and left his clothes on another chair. Then he showered, shaved, and went through all the other elements of his morning routine. The mirror told him his eyes were too red, with ugly dark bags beneath them. He closed his eyes as he finished combing his hair, then went out into the bedroom. He turned to his closet and began to dress for the new day.

* * *

The papers reported more killings. Fernando went out twice more that week, and the last time he came home in Ludo Giuly’s car, covered in blood and talking too quickly about the lousy customs patrol boats in the harbor. He left bloody handprints all over one arm and the back of Raúl’s shirt as Raúl dragged him up the walk to the back door.

Blinding light passed over Raúl’s face. He stared into the flaring whiteness as he listened to tires spin gravel off his drive into the side of his house. On his shoulder Fernando’s words abruptly stopped. Harsh wet rasps replaced them.

Raúl ducked his head and squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them. He could see a little: shadows and dancing stars. He shook his head and put back his right foot, feeling with it till he heard the door rattle. He kicked it.

“Sorry,” Fernando said. His fingers clenched around Raúl’s arm. “Sorry. The alarm tripped.”

“Quiet,” Raúl said. He kicked the door again, then wrenched himself around. The latch was barely an inch from his arm, but he couldn’t undo it without letting go of Fernando.

Fernando laughed and rubbed his face against Raúl’s chest. Warm blood pressed through the cloth only to chill in the night air. “It was my fault. It wasn’t—wasn’t those bastards. For once.”

“Quiet,” Raúl said again, more gently. Nearly everyone was out, he knew that, but still…he swayed back, then drove his shoulder into the door.

He finally heard someone come into the kitchen. The door swung open and he and Villa looked at each other through the mesh. Then Villa looked at Fernando. Villa hissed and shoved at the screen door so that Raúl nearly dropped Fernando, moving the other man out of the way.

The two of them carried Fernando inside and onto the kitchen table. Then Villa turned away. Raúl began to stand and Fernando dragged his arm over Raúl’s back, keeping him down. “Stay.”

“You need a doctor. Villa. There are bandages in the—” Then Raúl saw the other man already had the cabinet open. He turned back to Fernando and looked into feverish eyes, an ashy face. “Fernando, let go. I need to call—”

“ _Stay_ ,” Fernando hissed. He clenched his hand against Raúl’s spine, then arched violently against the table. The spasm of pain made his teeth chatter. His hand dropped away.

Raúl tore himself free and twisted around a chair, then went to the phone on the wall. He took it down and dialed for Laudrup; behind him Fernando cursed and kicked something. Villa snarled and Fernando let out a pained, incredulous laugh that spiked shrilly.

“I don’t want you,” Fernando said. “Raúl. Raúl! I’m dying, I should be dead already but—but I wanted—see you—come here and let me _see_ —”

“Stop it, you’re tearing it open. He’s on the damn phone, he’ll be back in a moment.” Villa breathed hard.

Laudrup said he’d be right over. Raúl pressed down the hook, then began dialing Guardiola’s number. He turned and put the phone back to his ear. Fernando stared at him from the table, turned over on his belly, one arm thrown out so his hand flicked off drops of blood every time he tried to grasp at Raúl. Beside him Villa was holding a compress to Fernando’s side and trying to drag Fernando back by the shoulder.

“Come. For once, for the love of God, for me, won’t you—” Then Fernando cried out, twisting onto his side. He pushed clumsily at Villa.

“You’re not dying,” Raúl said sharply. “Laudrup will be here soon.”

“You’re calling him. Goddamn it.” Fernando’s head dropped onto the table, then went back as he spasmed again. His eyes closed. His lips barely moved as he spoke, as if he was praying. “I don’t care. You can call him but I just want you to—”

Villa shook him. “Hold still, damn it. You fucking moron, you’ll kill yourself.”

“Don’t talk to him like that, Villa. You don’t need to talk to hold a compress down.” Then Raúl turned to the phone. He told Guardiola what had happened and the other man promised to find out the rest from Giuly. Raúl hung up and came over to the table. He stripped back his sleeves and then grabbed a wad of cotton and stuffed it against the sluggish red ooze on Fernando’s arm.

Fernando jerked, then quieted. He bent towards Raúl and Raúl reached down to rip open Fernando’s shirt. There was a long gash over the man’s chest and Raúl pressed more gauze against it. Some sweat got in Raúl’s eye and he shook his head to rid of himself of it, and saw Villa looking at him. He lifted his head and Villa flinched, then looked away. The other man rubbed his chin against his shoulder, his brow furrowed. They held together Fernando’s bleeding flesh as Fernando laid under them, exhausted.

When the doorbell rang, Fernando began to struggle. He clawed at Raúl’s hand, then whimpered when he missed. “No, stay.”

“It’s the doctor,” Raúl told him. “I have to go.”

“To hell with the doctor. I want you, not him,” Fernando hissed.

Villa opened his mouth, his upper lip already peeling back, and Raúl glanced at him. The other man closed his mouth. Then Raúl went to the door. “No, Fernando. I’m going. You wait.”

* * *

Laudrup needed the whole night with Fernando, and in the morning the doctor told Raúl that Fernando couldn’t leave a bed for two weeks. Raúl had to ask Villa to take over some of Fernando’s work escorting shipments, which the other man did with ill grace. He still refused to talk about whatever had made him install himself in Raúl’s home in the first place, but he did what Raúl needed him to do. 

David Silva took over the rest of Fernando’s duties, along with Inzaghi, an imported garrote specialist who Del Piero lent to Raúl. Less of their shipments were hijacked but as the number of bodies mounted, the politicians grew more and more nervous. Some of them stopped inviting Raúl over so that he had to invite them to a meeting. One even refused to see Raúl, and Raúl reluctantly turned the matter over to Figo. An hour later the man was on the phone begging for a meeting.

“I didn’t like it either, but you asked and I did what I could,” Figo said, pouring them drinks. “Nuno wasn’t in a good mood that night. You remember, Rui Costa had gotten his car shot up by a machine-gun a few hours earlier. He was fine, but…”

“I thought Nuno didn’t do wetwork anymore.” Raúl hung up his suit-jacket, then shut the closet door. He crossed the foyer and went into the parlor.

Figo grinned over the drink he offered Raúl. “Only when he needs to work out his temper on something. I don’t mind. I think he needs to keep his hand in, or else the younger ones will keep looking at him and think we only let him decorate the place.”

“I wouldn’t like to see his idea of decorating,” Raúl muttered. He looked into his glass, then downed it. Then he went around Figo and set his glass back on the sideboard.

“Neither would I,” Figo said after a moment. He sounded much less amused than he should have been. But he stayed where he was, sipping his drink as Raúl threw himself down on a sofa. “I’ve gone hunting with him, remember?”

Raúl nodded. He didn’t remember—he did. He’d excused himself from that trip, on account of having to receive a visiting distant relation.

It was getting late, but Raúl couldn’t ask for things to hurry up here. He looked around the room, avoiding the clock on the mantel. It was a nice suite, a little smaller than what Figo would usually rent, but sumptuous in the old style, all dark wood and rich brocade. The air smelled of cigar smoke and money.

Figo put his drink down on the table before the sofa and the clink of his glass made Raúl look up. Then both of them looked behind the couch.

“Sorry,” Pep said. He swung out of the bedroom door. He was still only half-dressed, his shirt-tails untucked and his suspenders hanging down about his hips.

“I don’t like that tie,” Figo said. “Too red. Bad color for this kind of meeting.”

Pep flicked a look at him, then flipped up the tie. He studied it before sighing and turning back into the bedroom. “I don’t have another with me. I’ll have to call Xavi. He can meet us at the door.”

Raúl got up, then paused with his hand on the couch-arm. But Figo withdrew a step and waved him on, so Raúl rounded the couch and followed Pep into the other room. He glanced at the rumpled bed, with the crisp vest and suit-jacket laid out on top of the mussed sheets. “I brought another one with me. I think it’ll do for you.”

“You have an extra? Is this a new habit?” Pep asked, twisting about. He studied Raúl the way he had his tie, with lowered brows and pursed mouth. Then he looked at the tie Raúl offered. He put out his hand and took it, and held it up alongside the first. His brows rose and the planes of his face relaxed, and he tossed aside his own tie. “Yes, this one’s better.”

“I’d say.” Figo went around Raúl and stopped before Pep. He ignored the other man’s half-turn away and began to pull at Pep’s shirt as Pep slung the tie around his neck. Then he lifted his hands and put them on Pep’s shoulders. When Pep wouldn’t look at him, he moved them in and cupped Pep’s jaw so the man had to meet his eyes. “You’re shaking.”

Pep shrugged. “It’ll be a rough meeting, even if we know how it’ll go. With this sort of thing, everyone wants their piece somehow.”

“Still, you should take your own advice. You were telling Andrés how to breathe just a few hours ago,” Figo said. He left his hands against Pep’s jaw a moment longer before returning to helping the other man dress.

Raúl moved back till he could take the knob in his hand. He shut the door quietly, without looking at it. Instead he watched the other two men, the way their hands looped around and worked beside each other. They never tried to duplicate the same effort.

“But why do you have an extra tie with you? Were you two doubling up on me again?” Pep addressed his question half to Raúl, half to Figo. He was smiling, breathing easier already.

Raúl looked to Figo, but the other man was smoothing the shirt-tails into Pep’s trousers. “No. I just carry a spare these days. It’s…you can throw a coat over a stained shirt. It’s harder to hide a stained tie.”

The lightness faded from Pep’s eyes. He lowered one hand, his tie still only half-done. He put it on Figo’s arm but Figo didn’t pause in tending to Pep’s clothes. Eventually Figo even took up the tie for Pep.

“I’m sorry,” Pep said. “I’ve said before, but I’ll say again, if you need—”

“I have enough for what I need to do. It’s not a question of that.” Raúl leaned against the door. He put his hands in his pockets, then took them out and smoothed out the creases that had made. Then he looked at his watch.

“We’ll be on time,” Figo said.

Pep brushed off the other man, then looked at him. Then he went around Figo and came over to Raúl. He lifted his hand and put it to the side of Raúl’s face, with his thumb over Raúl’s cheek. “How’s Fernando?” he asked.

“Fine. He’s at my place, resting. I’ve gotten cover for him.”

“That wasn’t what I was asking,” Pep muttered, looking down. He stared at the space between them. His shoulders lifted and fell with a rough sigh. He put his other hand on Raúl’s arm, then on Raúl’s shoulder and Raúl raised his own hands and cradled Pep’s whippet-thin body between them. Pep looked abruptly up, then peered hard into Raúl’s eyes. Then he settled back and nodded. “You still don’t like this.”

Raúl opened his mouth and Pep bent towards him. He closed his mouth. Pep’s mouth stopped short and Raúl breathed in as the other man breathed out. Then he parted his lips as Pep pressed forward that last bit. He moved his hands up and down Pep’s sides, then lowered his head as Pep lifted his.

“That’s why I appreciate your vote so much more than the others. I know you’ve thought about it, and made up your mind because you’re thinking of everybody’s good, not just your personal opinion,” Pep said. He turned his head and kissed Raúl’s cheekbone, temple, eyebrow. His hands caressed the side of Raúl’s face and throat, then smoothed slowly downward over Raúl’s chest. “I’m sorry, but I need this. I need you. I’m sorry I have to do this, to push this on you, but I need to believe in this.”

“I do. You know I do.” Over Pep’s shoulder Raúl could see Figo, standing back with one hand in his pocket. Their eyes met. Then Raúl turned his head towards Pep. His and Pep’s cheeks brushed briefly as Pep eased back; Raúl let his hands come off the other man, then twisted out from between him and the door. “But it’s hard to see it come to this.”

Pep turned and put his hand back on Raúl’s shoulder. His fingertips curled into Raúl. “You don’t have to. Once this meeting is over, we’ll deal with it. We’re not asking you to hit the streets again. You’ve already made that sacrifice. _We_ remember.”

“That’s not what he was saying,” Figo said, coming up on Pep’s left. He stretched over Pep’s shoulder and kissed Pep’s cheek as the man turned towards him, then continued on to open the door. “Still, I thought you’d have seen this enough times.”

“I’ve seen it enough, yes.” Raúl reached up and pulled away Pep’s hand, but held onto the wrist till they were through the doorway. Then he let it go and went to the telephone. “I’ll call the others and go down. When will you two be along?”

Figo and Pep glanced at each other. Then Pep raised his arm and looked at his wrist. He cursed and pinched the flapping cuff together, and headed back into the bedroom for the cufflink. “Ten minutes,” Figo said.

“All right,” Raúl nodded, picking up the phone.

* * *

Villa was waiting in the lobby. He looked up at Raúl’s approach, then finished lighting the end of Coupet’s cigarette. Giuly’s driver wheeled off, seeing Giuly emerge from the elevators, and Villa snapped shut his lighter. He jerked his chin at Raúl. “Iker got a call and had to take Salgado, and so Albiol and I are here instead. The car’s in the back. Albiol’s with it.”

After a moment, Raúl turned around. He paused for Villa to come up to him and saw Pep and Figo down the hall. Pep had Rui Costa by the arm and was walking their conversation to the left, where the hotel’s bar was. Figo stood and watched them, looking amused. Then he looked up. He saw Raúl and Villa, waited for Raúl to keep walking, and then turned to address Buffon.

“So?” Villa said. He swung into stride with Raúl. They were indoors but he put on his hat. It settled haphazardly on his head and he didn’t correct the angle, but instead stared out from under it at Raúl. The brim threw a knife-like shadow over his face.

“It’s war.” Raúl waited till they had reached the back door to put on his own hat. He spent a moment buttoning up his coat.

Villa pushed on outside. He didn’t bother to button his coat and it flapped stiffly against his legs as he looked out for the car. When it pulled up to the curb, he signaled to Albiol and then came back inside. The wind had struck color into his face, and against the gold trim of the door, his hand looked as pale as bone. He stared at Raúl, then jerked his head. “Come on. Aren’t you done here?”

He was holding the door, Raúl realized. After another glance over his shoulder, Raúl went out with a murmured thanks.

“You should look happier, shouldn’t you? It went your way,” Villa said.

Raúl looked sharply at him. “It’s not about my way,” he said, starting down the steps. “It’s about what’s necessary to survive.”

“Well, you’re not just surviving these days.”

“Yes, I can watch from a comfortable position. But that doesn’t mean I’m comforted. You should understand. Sometimes you want—you _need_ to be there, but it’s not your place,” Raúl snapped.

Villa didn’t come ahead to open the car door. Raúl did it himself, and then shut it before Villa could get into the back, if the man had such an idea. Then he breathed slowly out. He nodded to Albiol and told him to go home as quickly as possible, then put his head down on the back of the seat. He closed his eyes.

* * *

Fernando was looking at Raúl when Raúl opened the door, but then the other man turned his head away. He moved his arm up and down his chest, picking at the night-shirt he wore. Then he grimaced. He drew up his arm against himself and cradled it with his other one, whose bandaged fingers couldn’t quite close around the elbow.

“They voted for it,” Raúl said, closing the door. He leaned back against his hand so the knob pressed into his palm, then rocked forward. He brought his hand up as he crossed the room and looked at the knob’s outline in it, angry red.

“And how much of that did you buy, for Guardiola’s sake?” Then Fernando threw his head back. He was sitting high enough so that his head hit the wall and not the pillows behind him, but he didn’t flinch. The gaze he leveled on Raúl was steady and raw. 

Raúl looked at the bedside table. The glass there was empty and looked dry at the bottom. The vial of pills next to it was lying on its side. He put down his hand to right it and Fernando exhaled as if a breath could stab like a dagger.

He looked over and Fernando flinched. Then the other man dropped his gaze. His arms drooped till his hands were resting on his lap. “Well, Guardiola should be too busy to ask you any more favors for a while,” he muttered. He tilted his head. “They said I was calling for you, while I was under. I thought I’d learned better by now.”

“Fernando.” Raúl turned and placed his hand on the bed by the other man. He eased himself down so the mattress wouldn’t bounce under his weight.

“I’m not bitter you had to leave me again. Here you are, back again, after all.” Fernando smiled painfully. He moved his hand so it brushed against Raúl’s. When Raúl covered it, Fernando flattened his fingers to accommodate. “But he asks and you go.”

“I don’t. I—”

Fernando pulled away his hand. He used it to push himself further up the headboard. Pain twisted the features of his face but he pushed away the hand Raúl put out to help. “You do. You’re not his lackey, I’m not saying that at all, but for him you’ll listen to things you wouldn’t for anyone else, and you’ll do things you wouldn’t even consider otherwise. He just has to ask. No one else does.”

“You do,” Raúl snapped. He winced and looked away, pressing his hand against his temple. “Everyone asks, Mori. Even you. You ask whenever you come and I don’t turn you away. Whenever I turn you away and you come anyway, and I forgive you. That’s asking. Everyone asks, and I do what I think is—”

“I don’t ask!”

Raúl began to turn his head and he saw the white of Fernando’s wide eye just past the whitish blur. Then he rocked backwards. His cheek stung. He slipped off the edge of the bed onto his feet and had to catch himself on the bedside table, as beside him came a sharp intake of breath. He put his hand up to his cheek, then slowly lowered it and turned to Fernando’s stricken face.

The other man reached out again and in his haste, Fernando’s nails scraped the side of Raúl’s neck. A clumsy barber could have done worse but Fernando jerked back his hand as if he’d done Raúl a mortal injury. He looked down, then up, holding his head like a condemned man facing the end.

“Raúl,” Fernando started. He breathed harshly through his open mouth.

“It’s all right. You’ve left worse bruises,” Raúl said. He sat back on the bed and put his hand on Fernando’s hand. Then on the man’s arm, as Fernando stared stunned at him, and the shoulder. He leaned forward and Fernando’s eyelashes shuddered down, then snapped open. The other man watched as Raúl kissed him on the mouth. Raúl withdrew a little, then kissed him again and this time Fernando closed his eyes.

Then Raúl sat back. He took his hand off Fernando’s shoulder and faced out into the room. “But you do ask, Mori. It doesn’t matter to me. That’s how people are. That’s what I do—answer questions.”

“So. Guardiola and I. And Luís, and all the rest.” Fernando’s voice was so thick he could hardly get out the words. He had to stop and take a breath. “We’re all the same.”

“Of course you aren’t,” Raúl said, looking back. Then he put his hands on his knees, and pushed himself to his feet. He went over to the sideboard and got the pitcher of water there, then returned to the bed and filled up Fernando’s glass. “But we’re all in the same world, Fernando. It’s hard enough for me to remember that, with how everyone—likes to pretend otherwise. Don’t make it harder. That’s all I want.”

Fernando threw out his arm. His fingers hooked into a fold in Raúl’s sleeve and Raúl stopped; Fernando’s hand slipped free but seized Raúl’s arm. Then it went down to Raúl’s wrist and pulled. After a moment, Raúl let Fernando draw it up to the other man’s mouth. He stood and felt the heat of Fernando’s lips against his wrist, then gently took his hand away.

“Are you feeling all right? Did they bring up dinner yet?” Raúl asked.

“I ate,” Fernando said. He blinked up at Raúl, then shook his head, laughing under his breath. “Go. Go. I can call for Iker if I need something. Only…”

Raúl paused a moment longer. Then he turned away. He gathered up his hand to his chest as he went to the door, the one that Fernando had just bent over. “I’ll be back in the morning,” he said. “It’ll be slower for a day or so. I’ll see you.”

Behind him came a sigh. Then the sheets rustling, as Fernando laid down. He was under the covers when Raúl looked back at the door. Raúl turned off the lights and went into the hall.

* * *

Villa was waiting on the stair landing. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. His eyes went over Raúl, then lingered on Raúl’s cheek as Raúl slowed.

Then Raúl turned, meaning to pass the other man. He found an arm barring his way and pulled up short of it. He put his hand to his head, then to his shoulder. Then he wheeled about and pushed Villa back by the shoulder. “Don’t waste my time, Villa. I have—”

“If you go out looking like that, everyone will think you got fresh with a hatcheck girl and got slapped for it,” Villa said abruptly. He lifted his hand, then twisted around Raúl and went down a step. Then he looked over his shoulder. “You need to clean up the cut at least. Maybe then you can say it was a shaving nick.”

“It’s too long for a nick,” Raúl said after a moment.

Villa impatiently moved his shoulders as he went down another step. “Well, think of something else. And come on. I’ll boil up the water for you.”

They went into the kitchen. Sergio and Joaquín were sitting at the table eating, but they jumped up as Raúl entered. Raúl sent the one for some liniment and the other to call Salgado and see where the car was, and then leaned against the counter. He felt the bruised cut again as Villa filled up the kettle at the sink.

“I wanted to ask you something.” Villa hit the tap off with his elbow as he turned from the sink. He looked at Raúl as he crossed the room and set the kettle on the stove. Then he looked down, digging in his pockets for a match. He found one and lit the burner, then stepped back as the damp underside of the kettle sizzled.

Sergio came back with the liniment and a couple cotton gauze pads. He looked curiously at them, Villa at the stove and Raúl by the fridge, and Raúl told him he could take his snack and finish it in the parlor. That only heightened Sergio’s curiosity but he did as he was told. From the sound of things, he passed on the news to Joaquín. Neither of them came back into the kitchen.

“When did Pep talk to you?” Raúl asked.

“What? This morning.” The kettle began to whistle and Villa took it off the stove. He brought it over to Raúl and poured some of the water into a bowl. He put down the kettle and touched the water in the bowl with a fingertip. It made him grimace but he didn’t put his finger under the cold tap. He tore open one of the gauze pads’ wrapper and put the pad into the water.

Raúl let it soak a moment, then took it out and dabbed at his face. “No, when did he ask you to watch over me?”

Villa jerked back against the counter and stared at Raúl. His hand went to his hip. Raúl continued to wipe at the cut, his free arm hanging loosely by his side.

“Well, he told you,” Villa said. “You already know.”

“He didn’t tell me,” Raúl said. He tossed the pad aside and got himself a fresh one, and wetted it with liniment. It burned his cheek when he applied it but he bore up under that till he’d reached the count of ten. Then he threw that pad down with the other one. “Though he’s apologized since. But he didn’t tell me about it. I guessed, just now.”

Villa stared a little longer before laughing, hard and sharp. He fell sideways against the counter, shaking his head. “You’re so friendly with him.”

“He needed my vote. Pep always makes sure of things he needs.” The last pad Raúl put into the icebox unopened.

“And you, you were so sure of me?” Villa demanded. He took a step forward. “You don’t even know what Pep asked, do you? You don’t know if he asked—”

“If I’d been him I would _tell_ you to kill me if I had to.” Raúl shut the icebox and leaned against the door. He read the shopping list pinned to it: eggs, ham, paprika. “He would tell you if you did it when you didn’t have to, he’d kill you but it might be necessary.”

Villa was silent for a long time. Then he broke it with a shaky exhale. His feet shuffled against the floor. “I always thought…”

“We are. But that means we understand what it means to ask for something like that. Both of us, we know what needs to be done and we know how high the price of it can be.” Then Raúl turned around. He looked at Villa, who had put his hand back on the counter. “We’ve both already paid it many times over.”

“And you let me stay here, and you kept seeing him and you knew.” Villa shook his head again. His lip curled. “Were you going to kill me if I tried?”

Raúl touched his cheek. It hurt and he winced. “No. I don’t kill people these days.”

“Ah, so I’ve heard. So I think you’ve told me, even,” Villa muttered.

“I’d like to sometimes,” Raúl said. He sensed more than saw Villa’s start, although he was facing the other man. “I hated it. I still do, remembering it. You feel them going cold and slack, your stomach turns over. But when you’re doing it, you’re too busy to watch. You have to keep off the blood, keep it quiet, get rid of the body. It’s worse to stand by and watch. Not everybody can stand it. You have to look much harder to find them than to find killers.”

Villa moved and Raúl looked at him. The other man’s clenched jaw came into focus, and then his hand as he reached past Raúl. He opened the icebox and took out the gauze pad plus a bottle of milk. The bottle was only a quarter-full and when Villa wrapped the gauze around it, it looked exactly the same. He handed the bottle to Raúl, who put it slowly to his cheek. The cold stung even worse than the liniment, but then the flesh went numb.

“Was it going to be Mori, then?” Villa asked suddenly.

“What? Oh.” Raúl leaned back against the icebox. “I don’t know. It would have depended on when and how you—”

“I got here and then I watched you run around, being nice to everyone, and I couldn’t see how you did it. I thought you were an idiot, that’s how, but then I saw you weren’t.” When he spoke, Villa twisted back and forth on his feet. He shoved his hand in his pocket and then took it out and ran it over the back of his head. Then he pivoted and stared at Raúl. “I can’t kill you now. I won’t. I told Guardiola that. That’s why I picked you up and not him tonight.”

The cold began to thread into Raúl’s jawbone. He took away the bottle and held it against his waist. He looked at Villa. The other man stopped his restless movements and went so still that for a moment he seemed to have left. Then he was there again, so vivid before Raúl that it was incredible that he could have ever faded.

Raúl looked away. “What did you want to talk about?”

“I wanted to ask you,” Villa said. He stopped again, but then drew a deep breath. “Why don’t you ever call me David?”

“You’ve never asked,” Raúl replied after a long moment.

Villa tilted his head and frowned. Then he took a step forward. He brushed against the milk bottle and he looked down at that, then took it out of Raúl’s hand. He set it on the counter and Raúl put one hand on Villa’s free arm, around the elbow. The other man looked up quickly. His hand stayed on the bottle a little longer, then slowly swung to touch Raúl’s cheek. Its fingertips were chilled and Raúl breathed in sharply. Villa flattened his cold hand against Raúl’s face and leaned forward. His head inclined so his brow almost touched the bridge of Raúl’s nose.

Then he stepped back. He took away his hand but didn’t shake off Raúl’s grip. “Call me David, all right?”

“David,” Raúl said.

“I can take your answers, as long as you give them. I don’t expect you to give me nice ones—I don’t think you’ll give them any of the time, so that’s never going to disappoint me.” Then Villa glanced upwards. He pursed his lips. “I like Mori. Most of the time I like him more than you. But he shouldn’t have been upset. You didn’t say anything that he shouldn’t have known.”

“And I know about Guardiola and Figo and Fernando. I know that I should know about any others.” Villa looked back at Raúl. “I should know about anything I can ask about. If I can ask and you answer, then there’s no problem.”

He watched Raúl. Then Villa began to turn. He hissed when Raúl pulled hard on his arm. His foot twisted on the tile and he fell against Raúl, his hand clawing at Raúl’s shoulder. Raúl bit his fingers into Villa’s arm and hip as he harshly kissed the other man. He kissed the breath from both of them, so when they drew apart, Villa could only stare and Raúl had to gasp to find the air for speech.

“Sometimes I won’t be there, David, and you’ll be asking your questions to nothing, empty space. And that’s an answer. Sometimes I won’t be there but Fernando will, or Pep or Luís. That’s an answer too. Sometimes we’ll all be gone and that’s an answer. You understand?” Raúl rasped. “You understand what you’re asking?”

Villa pulled his lips back from his teeth. He pushed himself up Raúl, grabbing Raúl’s head in both hands. His teeth went into Raúl’s lips and his tongue into Raúl’s mouth, and for a moment their bodies twisted viciously around each other. Then Villa dropped back. He gasped once. His eyes went to something on Raúl’s cheek and stayed there, the light in them changing. He bent slowly forward and brushed his lips over the cut, so delicately that there was no pain.

“I get it,” Villa said curtly, separating them. His hands moved over Raúl, straightening out wrinkles as carefully as his mouth had touched Raúl a moment before. The glitter in his eyes dared Raúl to say something about it, as he smoothed down Raúl’s tie. “But don’t ask me to kill Guardiola.”

Raúl nodded. He put out his hand and picked up the bottle from the counter, and laid it against his cheek again. It took a little longer for the heat to drain away this time. “You’re not doing anything else tonight, David. You can go up and see Fernando, if you want. He’s trying to sleep but he’ll wake up later. He tends to.”

“When are you going to be back?” Villa asked. He tensed.

“In the morning,” Raúl said. It took no effort. He turned away and put the lukewarm bottle back in the icebox. “I’ll go as soon as Salgado comes back.”

He took a step back and Villa cleared his throat. “Mori would kill Guardiola. He’d try.”

“I haven’t asked him to do that,” Raúl said.

“What about Figo?”

Raúl turned towards the door. “Luís doesn’t kill these days either. But he could watch if he had to. With any of us. That’s why none of us would bother trying with him.”

“What a bunch you all are,” Villa snorted.

“We are. What a bunch we are. You’re included now,” Raúl corrected. He went up to the door and opened it. “You asked for it.”

The door pulled away from Raúl and Villa swung towards him with a face like thunder. Then Villa shook his head. He leaned back against the door. His lips twisted, then pulled back in a sharp smile. “I did. Well, good night for now. I’ll see you tomorrow, and then see about the others.”

He let Raúl pass, then stepped through the door himself. But at the stairs he went up, and Raúl continued on to the parlor. He had people waiting on him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally written on LJ for nieninque121.


	4. Number Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henrik plays pool with Zlatan, shoots the breeze and generally relaxes.

“Damn,” Zlatan said, straightening up. He flipped his cue over his right shoulder and frowned at the gently settling arrangement of balls on the green felt. “My hand’s still stiff.”

Henrik took the chalk off the tip of his cue and set it on the side of the pool table, which was a rich mahogany trim. The small cube left a dusting of blue on his fingertips. He rubbed them together, studying the new layout of the table. Zlatan had missed his shot but he’d managed to avoid setting up any easy ones for Henrik. The cue ball would have to take at least one deflection to do any damage.

“Eleven?” Zlatan turned around so his back was to the table. He leaned his stick against the table’s edge and then used both hands to flex his scabbed knuckles. “That bastard’s head must have been filled with concrete.”

Eleven could be done. The nine-ball was also not unreasonable, but Henrik kept his stick at his side. He moved around the corner and studied the new perspective he had. “You could have used the wine-bottle.”

“For a shit like that? I don’t like wine, but if I’m going to spend that kind of money on rotten grape juice…speaking of drinks.” The tone of Zlatan’s voice shifted sharply to welcoming. He looked up and tipped back to brace himself against the pool table.

They were at the far end of the billiards room. The only coats hung on the nearby wall-pegs were their own, but at the other end was the private bar and several figures lounged at it. The light over the bar was on, but it only illuminated the area behind the counter. All the lamps between it and their pool table were turned off, so the silhouettes in that intervening space moved blurrily behind the crisp pale linen of Zlatan’s shirt, the light tan of his vest. One shadow grew steadily larger and it was that one at which Zlatan was smiling.

Zlatan had made the table move a little when he’d leaned against it. The balls on it jiggled in place for a few seconds, then settled. They didn’t seem to have moved significantly; Henrik moved back to his original position and confirmed that. Then he lifted his head and watched Paolo bring up two shot-glasses to Zlatan. They were frosted around the sides and their bottoms were dripping condensation through Paolo’s fingers. One drop fell from his hand to disappear into the black cloth of Zlatan’s trousers.

“Thanks,” Zlatan said, taking a glass. His eyes stayed on Paolo as he swirled and sniffed. They ran appreciatively up and down the supreme tailoring of Paolo’s clothes, which fit him so beautifully that no matter how he moved, shirt to vest to trousers was an unbroken line. Then Zlatan laughed. “What is this? I thought I asked for a double.”

Paolo shrugged. He put his body at a forty-five degree angle to the other man, his free left arm nearly touching Zlatan while his right arm curved so the glass it held closed the open space between them. “The bar’s out of it. This is what they suggested as a substitute.”

Zlatan sniffed the glass again, then took a sip. He lifted his head as he rolled it around his mouth, frowning. Then he swallowed, tilted his head and nodded. He shifted his weight against the bar so he was closer to Paolo. “It’s all right. But how the hell are they out already? Who else is here?”

“David Silva’s using one of the private rooms for a card game,” Henrik said as he leaned over the table. He waited for Zlatan to turn to him, then pointed with his chin. “Three.”

As he spoke, Henrik smoothly slid the cue through his fingers. It struck the cue-ball with the perfect amount of force, sending it into the near wall so it was redirected into the three-ball. The cue-ball stopped flat, its momentum precisely transferred to the ball now dropping softly into the corner pocket.

“There are some people in the front rooms, mostly out-of-towners. And Chiellini and Vieri each brought in a group about an hour ago,” Paolo added. He watched the pool table over Zlatan’s shoulder. Occasionally he sipped from his glass. “Also the shipment tonight is late. I think González called about it. He’s short men for escorting it.”

“He could’ve asked for extra hands. I’m not doing anything tonight.” Then Zlatan laughed. He inclined his head in a mock apology that left Paolo looking bemusedly at him. He put his drink down on the edge of the table and turned. His right arm rose so its curve casually swung about Paolo’s waist, and he leaned on the other man as he looked at the pool table. “Didn’t call the pocket, Henke.”

Henrik nodded and lifted his pool-stick off the table. Predictably, Zlatan waved off the offer and so Henrik went around the table, to the side nearest the cue-ball’s new position. “Sorry. Nine-ball, side-pocket,” he said. “Raúl would need less men if the route wasn’t so long.”

“Or if we had our men running all of upstate. I’m seriously beginning to think about volunteering to go up there and take care of it. It’s getting ridiculous.” Zlatan glanced to the side, then cursed and dropped. Nothing hit the floor. He rose again a moment later, his stick in hand, and turned back around to face the rest of the room. His left arm crossed before Paolo to rest its hand on the table’s edge.

“Even if it ran smoothly, you still have a significant transportation delay,” Paolo commented. He lowered his glass and swirled it without looking into it. The ice inside clinked like little bells wrapped in cloth. Then Paolo raised the glass to his mouth. The movement made his torso bow forward so he pressed into Zlatan’s extended arm.

“So the harbor would be quicker, we all know that. But all I’ve seen there is a bunch of talk. We’re worse about the harbor than we are about the trucks,” Zlatan snorted. His hand twisted off the table and gripped Paolo’s hip so the other man hitched towards him. Zlatan raised his head as Paolo turned his.

They looked at each other. A faint smile tugged at Zlatan’s lips, their quirk matching the arch of the brows above them. Paolo didn’t smile but he looked up at Zlatan through half-closed eyes, with a relaxed carriage of his head and neck. Then he sighed. His shoulders arched back and down, like the stretch of a cat under a caressing hand. “I know.”

“Ah, yes. You’ll let me know when I have something to do, too.” Zlatan laughed and let his head dip towards the other man. His hand slid up and down Paolo’s hip, then went back to the table. “How’s the bank coming along?”

Paolo turned his head a little. He didn’t move it back, only to the side so his and Zlatan’s noses avoided a collision. He seemed unconcerned that Zlatan’s cheekbone, mouth and point of chin were at various times much more likely to graze against his face. “They’re in line, but I’m waiting on the dockworkers.”

“They’re a hard lot to talk to,” Henrik said. He settled on his shot and bent over, and made it. Then he stood up and walked around to retrieve the chalk for his cue. “Who are you talking to?”

“Vieri’s out front,” Paolo replied, looking at Henrik. The light in his eyes sharpened, though the stance of his body remained slack against Zlatan.

Zlatan heard the click of the ball but didn’t turn. He cocked his head, then grinned. “You’re kicking my ass tonight, Henke.”

“Well, you’ve a sore—” Henrik started.

“Soft ass from sitting around.” Another silhouette loomed up out of the dark and cracked the harsh circle of light. Chiellini nodded curtly to Henrik and not at all to Paolo before returning his gaze to Zlatan. He came up to the corner on Zlatan’s left and smiled, his eyes falling to Zlatan’s glass on the table. Then he circled round the end. “You’ve got one of the lowest tallies so far, Ibrahimović. People are starting to say this turf war’s made you gun-shy, or maybe it’s your—”

He broke on a sharp inhaling cough, which itself was interrupted by the crack of wood on wood. Chiellini leaped back and danced unsteadily on his toes for a moment, then dropped his feet flat against the floor. His hands twitched up and Henrik cleared his throat; Chiellini looked at him, grimaced and looked back at the cue-stick that had slapped down in front of him. Then he followed it back to the hand holding it, and to the hand’s owner.

“His what?” Paolo asked pleasantly.

“His…never mind. I’ve got to get some things out of the back,” Chiellini muttered.

He moved forward and the end of the stick whipped up to the gorge of his throat. It rode the gorge’s bobbing as Chiellini swallowed hard. Then Chiellini moved back. He looked at Paolo, but Paolo was watching the stick as it swung up and slipped through his fingers. The bigger end of the cue thudded softly against the floor. A faint bluish streak could be seen on Chiellini’s throat.

Zlatan still had his arm up, his fingers crooked around an invisible stick. He looked back and forth between Paolo and Chiellini, then grinned and dipped his head. His hands went to sit on the dip of Paolo’s waist. He braced himself against the table with his feet wide apart and pulled Paolo between them, flush up against him. The moment they were matched, he nuzzled the side of Paolo’s face, the one away from Chiellini, murmuring something. Paolo tipped his head into it and blinked, smoothly changing his eyes from hard to amused.

Chiellini stared at them. Then he shook his head. He put his hand up and scratched his jaw, then turned away. “That’s lovely as roses in springtime,” he said, lip curling.

“Thank you.” Paolo set Zlatan’s cue-stick against the table, still turning his head into Zlatan’s affectionate words. Then he put his glass down by Zlatan’s and hooked both hands over Zlatan’s right shoulder. He pulled on them as he peered at the balls on the table. “And how is your numbers-running going?”

“Fine,” Chiellini snapped, blanching. He spun back around. “It’s fine. How’s your business?”

“Extremely profitable,” Paolo replied. He could have used the same tone to ask the bartender for some change. 

Chiellini snorted. He opened his mouth and Zlatan put his hand down to the cue-stick.

Paolo put his chin down so they sandwiched his hands on Zlatan’s shoulder and kept looking at the table. “I can see where you might get that impression, Giorgio, but I wasn’t referring to how Zlatan and I fuck. I was referring to how I’ve made enough to not just repay my investors in full, but also to cover your losses for this month.”

“You’re a—” Chiellini started.

“Shut your mouth or I’ll shut it for you,” Paolo said quietly, glacially. He remained relaxed against Zlatan, his eyes calmly studying the possible shots and possibilities of the table. “If you’d like to find out for yourself whether I’m simply here for my looks, I will show you. But this is a nice bar, with plenty of nice people just trying to have a good night out. You’ll ruin that for them as much as you’ll ruin it for yourself. It wouldn’t be wise.”

Zlatan took his hand from the stick. He put it on the table’s edge and leaned on it, his head dipping again so his smile covered Paolo’s ear. To their left, Chiellini stood very still while color came and went in his face. His mouth was open. It moved a few times, but never quite closed as he finally turned away from them. He took a step, then shook his head and went for the back door. He unlocked it and went into the room behind it.

“Is that how you talk to Vieri?” Zlatan asked Paolo.

“No,” Paolo said, looking oddly at Zlatan. Then he snorted, his eyes dropping. He turned himself easily out of Zlatan’s hold and stepped up to the table at Zlatan’s left, to look at the two glasses sitting on the rim there. “I think I’ve had enough for now. Did you want another drink?”

Henrik settled his elbow on the far end of the table. “Seven-ball, left upper pocket.”

Zlatan shook his head as he turned. He let Paolo scoop up the empty glasses and wander off with them. “If it turns out you need it, I think I can get you a meeting with Buffon. He knows this guy Inzaghi, who’s got some link to Vieri.”

“Thank you, but I think I can settle my business without that. But I’ll keep it in mind for the future.” Paolo brushed his hip against Zlatan, then went back up to the bar.

Henrik pushed the stick sharply forward. It hit the ball. The stick wobbled in his fingers and in the wobble Henrik could feel already that the hit was uneven. He stifled a curse and stood, and together he and Zlatan watched the seven-ball roll just short of the pocket, and the cue-ball stop in perfect line with it for an easy shot.

“Distracted by the small talk?” Zlatan said with mock sympathy. He patted Henrik on the shoulder as he passed on the way to the other side of the table. He spent barely a second lining up his stick before nailing the shot. “Chiellini _is_ a shit.”

“If he learns to time his courage better, he might make understudy to Camoranesi for Buffon. He’ll never make the board.” Henrik followed the cue-ball on its slow arc across the table, first with his eyes and then with his feet. He heard scuffling behind him and turned his back to it, then swung up his stick. He didn’t speak, since a loud yelp behind him made that impossible, but instead used his stick to point out a shot. “You should try that one?”

Zlatan was looking past Henrik. His jaw had dropped into his feral, amused grin and it was a moment before he managed to draw it back and speak. “What? That one? That would be hell to make, Henke.”

“I think you can do it,” Henrik said, shrugging. As Zlatan bent down to study it more, Henrik turned and caught the full force of Chiellini’s startled, irritated look. He watched it fold hastily up and disappear.

Chiellini ducked his head. He hefted the case of beer in his arms, then kicked shut the back door. He went forward a step before jerking to a stop, a mildly stricken look on his face. Then he glanced to Henrik before warily going back and locking the door. He started off again, only to pull up short as Paolo returned empty-handed. Paolo nodded politely to him and Chiellini stared as the other man calmly resettled himself at a corner of the pool table. Henrik had to clear his throat to get Chiellini moving again.

“All right,” Zlatan finally muttered. He didn’t seem to notice Chiellini beating a quick retreat as he slung most of his upper body over the table. His long arms helped but even with them, he had to contort himself to fit the angle. A bead of sweat welled at his temple, then slipped down his cheek as he let the stick shoot through his fingers. “Two, side-pocket.”

The cue-ball ricocheted hard off the near wall, barely missing the eight-ball, and rolled quickly into the opposite wall. There it lost a good deal of its energy. It kissed the six into nudging the two-ball, which moved sluggishly to the pocket’s rim, teetered, and then fell into it.

Zlatan laughed and pumped his stick in the air. He pulled out half his shirt-tail and left it, so when his arm was down, the excess cloth bunched out like a growth at his waist. “That was a goddamn good shot. Thanks, Henke.”

“You made it,” Henrik said.

“You saw it,” Zlatan riposted. He looked up, still grinning. Then he rolled back his shoulder and turned away. He sauntered around the corner but left back his arm so it wound itself around Paolo. When he ran out of arm, he stopped and bent over the table. “You two talk yet?”

Henrik didn’t know what he was talking about and waited. Paolo started and looked sharply at Zlatan. He favored Henrik with a less open look. “No.”

“Well, go ahead. I’ve got a free night and I don’t want to spend it all here.” Then Zlatan winced. “Not that you’re not good company, Henke, but I’ve got…well…”

“I have other engagements too, although you’re so charming I put you first,” Henrik said dryly.

Zlatan snorted and bent down over the table. While he lined up his next shot, Paolo considered Henrik. Then Paolo looked down at Zlatan’s back. His eyes followed its S-curve up to the man’s neck, then slipped from there to the green felt under Zlatan’s head. “I’d like to ask the Board to consider an expansion. I’m doing better than I thought. I know they’re preoccupied with the war, but the best time to pick up ground is when your enemies are in disarray, so—”

“You can wait to explain it to all of us, and save yourself some trouble,” Henrik interrupted. He waited himself for the surprise to die out of Paolo’s eyes. “We’ve a meeting next week. Zlatan can let you know when the when and where are set.”

Paolo blinked hard. He drew in a breath, but then changed his mind about asking. Instead he just nodded. “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

“You’re welcome.” Henrik heard balls clinking together and looked down. He watched another ball drop into a pocket. “Well, I think there goes my win this time, Ibra.”

“My hand’s feeling better, too. I think I’m going to have fun tonight,” Zlatan said. He rose and moved to the left. His hip bumped Paolo and the other man began to move, but Zlatan put out his arm and stopped that. His fingers brushed Paolo’s side as he pulled back his arm. Then he leaned down again and aligned his stick with the cue-ball. “Eight-ball, corner pocket.”

* * *

All three of them left the speakeasy about an hour later. Zlatan and Paolo took off to see a show, and after making his farewell to them, Henrik turned down the alley. He walked through it and another one that branched off it, then went out onto the street and two more blocks down. He stopped in front of a battered door and knocked on it. After a few moments, he heard footsteps and raised his head. He looked into the peephole.

The door creaked open. Henrik muttered in Swedish and it opened wide to let him pass. He and the doorman nodded to each other, and Henrik continued on down the narrow hall. He heard conversation and sloshing glasses coming from behind several closed doors, but passed them all in favor of the door at the very end of the hall. There he had to knock again, but he was admitted without needing to provide a password.

The room behind the door was on the small side, but furnished with clever sparseness so it avoided seeming cramped. A few battered wooden chairs were piled up against one wall. It didn’t have a bar, but in the corner was a sink and some cabinets, which a man was restocking with bottles of some clear liqueur. He saw Henrik and began to rise, but Henrik gestured for him to continue his work.

Then Henrik turned to his left. He went up to a small table and stopped before it to take off his coat and hat. Both went on a spare chair. He stripped off his suit-jacket and laid it on top, then loosened his tie as he put his free hand on the empty chair at the table. Henrik pulled it out and sat in it, then tugged it forward. He looked down at the table, thought a moment, and then put out his hand to move one of the black chessmen.

Across the table, Figo lowered his newspaper and straightened up. He looked at the changed board. “I’m going to lose,” he said dryly.

“I invited Maldini to come to the next board meeting.” Henrik heard someone approaching and looked up to see a waiter stop a few feet away. The man offered them a tray of small plates, and after a moment, Henrik nodded to one of them. The waiter set down the plate of pickled herring and balanced a crust of bread on its edge, then departed. “You’ve got at least four or five moves yet.”

“I know, but the difference between life and a chess game is that in life, you waste an awful lot more than your time bothering to go through those moves. I’m still going to lose.” Figo glanced at his paper again, then sighed and folded it up. It was a cheap rag and left dark grey smudges on his fingers. “Maldini. I like him too. He’s worked out remarkably well. But I’m a little surprised you’re going to be the one introducing him.”

The herring was delicious, vinegary but cool, its taste somehow crisp in contrast to the fish’s soft texture. It was gone in a matter of seconds, with only a few crumbs on the plate. Henrik pulled out a napkin and dabbed at his mouth. He looked at the board, then moved a white chessman. “Well, I don’t think it’s sensible to leave it to Zlatan to do it.”

“God, I hope not. I like Ibra too, but I’d rather you didn’t go off to your cabin in the woods just yet,” Figo said. “No, I was thinking—”

“Buffon?” Henrik saw that the waiter was free again and moved his head. The waiter saw him and promptly brought over a glass of water, then took away Henrik’s plate.

Figo stifled a snort into his hand. Then he lounged back in his chair, the paper dangling from his fingers. “All right, point taken. But you’ll have to watch it so that the others don’t think he’s to join instead of Zlatan. You’ve never really made this sort of move before, and things are already a little tense, thanks to Pep. He’s in the right, as usual, but he makes people nervous.”

“I don’t think there’ll be a problem. I’m not about to step down and Zlatan knows he isn’t ready anyway, but we have an open seat and that’s the wrong kind of invitation. Everyone knows that the sooner it’s filled, the better,” Henrik said calmly. He sipped some water, swished it around his mouth to clear the last traces of vinegar, and then swallowed. Then he moved a black piece on the board.

“You mean Mourinho’s place? I think Rui would argue he should have more of a say on that one. They’re countrymen, after all, although none of Rui’s candidates are.” The paper flicked slowly back and forth in Figo’s fingers. It made a soft scratching sound against the wooden floor. Then Figo raised his arm and began to use the paper to tap the table’s edge. “Granted, that alone says plenty about the dearth of quality in that corner. I’ll admit to being disappointed that we can’t seem to find leaders anymore.”

“I’ve talked to Rui and he’s fine with Maldini. They’ve had a couple nice lunches together, and Maldini apparently gave him some useful business advice,” Henrik said. He exchanged a white piece with a black piece, and set the black piece off to the side.

Figo watched him for a few moments. Henrik studied the board, made black’s next move and then waved his hand over the board. After a second, Figo tipped his gaze down to it. Then he shook his head, grinning. “As I said.”

“No, it’s check.” Henrik reached out and moved a white pawn. He touched it to the proper square, then took it away. In its place he put the white queen that had been standing ready at the edge. “Now, checkmate.”

“When did you talk to Rui?” Figo asked after a long moment. “I saw him Saturday.”

“Sunday morning.

Figo raised his brows. “In church?”

“We had a respectful conversation,” Henrik replied. “He suggested I make sure you wouldn’t oppose it, by the way. For some reason he thought you would.”

“Poor Rui,” Figo laughed. He threw the paper down to the side of the board. When it tipped over several of the pieces, he put out his hand and carefully set them upright. “I don’t think he’s thought clearly about me for a few weeks now. He’s annoyed that I won’t keep Pep in check, and that I let Mourinho get out of hand.”

“That’s silly.” Henrik didn’t feel any need to add why he thought that way.

The other man didn’t show any signs of pressing him on it. Instead Figo shrugged and began to rise from his seat. He stooped and picked up Henrik’s coat and hat from the chair near him, then held them while Henrik put his suit-jacket back on. “Well, as with those two, I always assume you don’t need me to bother you. Is Zlatan coming too?”

“No, he’s got a job,” Henrik said. He took his coat from Figo and put that on, then took his hat but only held it at his side. He nodded his thanks.

“He’s going to be partnerless again, now that Maldini’s back in the shipping business,” Figo remarked. He turned around and hunted about a bit before turning up his own coat and hat. “I don’t suppose Maldini will be helping to dig graves for much longer. It’s a shame. They’ve made a fine pair in such a short time. And Ibra works better with company, in my opinion.”

Henrik had been thinking of that. He pushed his chair back under the table, then waited for Figo to go ahead of him. The hallway was too narrow to walk more than one abreast, so Henrik left the conversation till they were out on the street. Ferreira already had Figo’s car pulled up to the curb and Figo offered to give Henrik a lift, which Henrik accepted.

It was full dark now. The streetlights had gauzy halos as their yellow light struggled to pierce the lingering smog. They weren’t in a busy area of town, but they soon turned onto one of the main streets and the air was abruptly alive with the sounds of people laughing, shoes scuffing the sidewalk, car engines growling along. Figo turned to Henrik and said, “I’ve a suggestion.”

“Buffon’s been very unhelpful with finding Alessandro Nesta,” Henrik sighed. “I’ve had to do it myself.”

“Ah. Never mind.” Figo leaned back against the seat. “Well, tell me when the heads begin to roll, so I can arrange to be somewhere else, preferably across a large body of water. Where are we dropping you, by the way?”

“Oh, you can just leave me at the corner there. I’m done with business for tonight.” Henrik knocked on the glass separating the front and back, then pushed it aside. He pointed out the spot for Ferreira. When he sat back, Figo was favoring him with an odd look. “Well, everyone has to have a hobby.”

After an uncertain moment, Figo opted not to comment on it. He and Henrik made their farewells as the car pulled over, and then Henrik swung himself out the door. Henrik took in his new surroundings, then watched the car slowly merge back into the thick traffic. Then he turned around. He went up to a nearby door and through it, and then made his way through the crowded room to the back door. There he stopped to pay admission and to be given his club and ball for the night.

The people in the front bar aside, it looked like a slow night on the putting greens, which suited him. He walked up to the first hole and set his ball on the tee. He took a slow breath and measured the distance with his eye, then swung the club up and down. The ball rolled at a good clip forward, curved left and then stopped just short of the cup. Henrik exhaled slowly, then sighed and walked forward to retrieve his ball for another try. He was rusty; he hadn’t gotten out to a proper course in weeks. He hoped tonight would be quiet enough to at least let him have a decent practice, but he didn’t dwell on that. Instead he set his ball back on the tee. He took his moments when he could.


	5. Number Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rui Costa doesn’t allow loss.

The man flopped like a half-clubbed fish. He flung his right hand out and splattered blood all over the wall. His feet twisted in the opposite direction and nearly took out Nuno Valente, who jumped over the swinging legs and then fell back against a stack of boxes. Rui suppressed a curse and grabbed the shotgun from the frozen Baía. He snapped back the hammer for the still-loaded barrel, aimed and fired.

It was a small basement room, with no air unless the door was open and right now it wasn’t. The discharge seemed to fill the whole place with stinging, acrid smoke. For a moment Rui couldn’t see anything but a haze of grey. His ears rang.

“Shit,” Nuno Valente was saying. The words gradually penetrated the ringing. “Shit. That’s a fucking mess.”

Rui grimaced and lowered the shotgun. He couldn’t hear any movement in front of him. “You’ll have to scrub down the place after the body’s gone. Use soap, and then a bottle of rotgut. Just mopping it down’s not going to be enough.”

“Shit,” Nuno Valente said again. He wasn’t usually one with a weak stomach, and he sounded more irritated than disgusted. When he came up to Rui’s side, he was wrapping his left hand up in a handkerchief. He saw Rui looking at it and sighed. “I put my hand down on a nail or something. This place is a fucking wreck.”

Baía finally stirred. He took a step towards the mangled corpse and both Rui and Nuno Valente looked sharply at him. Then he took a quicker step back. He lowered his head and put his hand up towards his face, then caught Rui watching him as he turned. The other man flinched and hid his face behind his hand as he quietly went towards the door.

Nuno Valente started to call after him, but stopped when Rui cleared his throat. Rui went back to looking at the body on the floor, but Nuno Valente watched Baía leave. Once the door had swung shut on Baía, Valente rocked back on one heel and ran his bandaged hand over the top of his head. “Well, there’s a fucking surprise. Hope he makes it to the powder room before he faints, because Quaresma sure as hell can’t carry him to a couch.”

“Quiet,” Rui muttered, flipping the shotgun barrel-up. Then he set it down against the wall, where somebody would see it and remember it. He glanced at the body again. “Get started on that. I’m going up and I’ll send Maniche down to help. You need anybody else?”

“Uh. No, Maniche’ll be enough. Damn, but that was a lousy shot. If he really liked the bastard so much, you’d think he’d do it clean,” Valente said.

He wasn’t talking about Maniche at the end, but at this point it didn’t matter too much. Rui turned around and went to the door. He stooped down and got the bags lying by it, then tossed them to Valente. Then he went upstairs.

Maniche was in the front room with Quaresma. They were both standing but there were cards scattered over the one table. One chair was still pulled up to the table while the other one was twisted hard away, like somebody had kicked it round in springing up from it. Quaresma saw Rui looking at the cards and gulped.

Rui ignored it and told Maniche to go down and help Valente. Then he asked Quaresma where Baía had gone and the other man jerked a thumb towards the back. “Kitchen. He said something about needing a drink.”

So Rui went to the kitchen, and standing at the counter was Baía, face still bloodless. The man had an open bottle of rotgut and a half-full glass in front of him, but the glass didn’t look like it’d been touched and he didn’t look like he wanted to touch it. He had his palms flattened on the counter on either side of the glass and bottle, and was leaning on them so his shoulders humped nearly to his ears. His head was down and it stayed down as Rui came up to him.

“He earned it,” Rui said. After a moment, he reached out and picked up the bottle. He poured more into the glass, till it was brimming, and then pulled the bottle back against himself. He looked around a bit, found the cork, and began to work it back into the bottle. “You’re the one who brought me the evidence.”

“I know, but—I _knew_ him. Since we were this high—” Baía bent even lower, dragging his left hand off the counter, and gestured at his thigh “—and cutting catechism lessons together. I knew him, Rui.”

He and Rui both, but Rui didn’t mention that. Instead he finished putting the cork back into the bottle. Then he went into the hall, hearing footsteps there. It was Maniche and Rui gave him the rotgut, then returned to the kitchen. Baía hadn’t moved.

“Vitor. I know it hurts, but it was the right thing to do. If we hadn’t done anything, we’d all be dead and our families would be out on the street. He was our friend but something changed. He changed it,” Rui said quietly. From the basement came thuds and curses, and then Valente’s muffled call for a shovel. “The best thing we can do now is bury it and move on, see to his children. In a few days they’ll know…you can go—”

“—tell them?” Baía jerked his head around. The whites of his eyes were filled with ragged red lines. His lips writhed before pulling back in a humorless laugh. “No, you mean pay off the widow.”

Rui put his hand on the counter. “She’s earned far more than that, but that’s all she’s asking for now. She’s the one who called to say he was coming. She understands what it means to betray your vows.”

“We’re not a church, Rui.” But Baía’s voice was fading. He looked down again. His eyes squeezed shut and his hands curled into tight fists against the counter. Then they flexed out their fingers and he sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m upset. No, you’re…you think Tuesday would be too early?”

“I’d wait till Wednesday. Otherwise you’d be ahead of the papers in reporting his death,” Rui said after a moment. He watched the other man a little longer, till Baía’s hand crept towards the glass.

It retreated, then came purposefully forward. Baía gripped and lifted the glass almost in the same movement; he spilled a lot of the rotgut over his hand but got enough into his mouth for Rui to leave. Rui stopped in the front room to tell Quaresma to see Baía home, then went out to his car.

* * *

“Well, I told you Vitor’s been slipping for months now. He was a good man in his day, but he’s never going to make it through this war.” Luís sounded unusually frustrated. He banged open and shut the cabinets a few more times before throwing up his hands. “Damn it. I know I put it in here. If Pep’s been into my things again…no, no, I’m going to find it. I know very well Nuno Gomes is still mad at me for the barges, and I fully intend to make nice with him.”

“He’s not coming back till tomorrow, Luís. You can always go out and buy another one before you see us. I’d think it’d mean more if you brought it personally instead of giving it to me to give to him, too,” Rui said mildly.

The other man heard him, but continued searching. “It’s a pity Baía chose to stay with us instead of going with Mourinho. That would have made things easier.”

Rui turned away, leaning his hip against a chair. The curtains were drawn back from the windows and through them he had a clear view of the street outside. It was a sunny, warm day and the sidewalks were bustling; as he watched, two men’s hats and four women’s passed by the house. He absently noted that hat styles had changed again, at least for women.

“Here it is.” Luís came over and stood by Rui for a moment. Then he put his arms on the chair’s top and leaned on them. He had a small package in his hand, wrapped in pretty pastel paper. He fingered the bow on it, then glanced at Rui. Then he shrugged. “The wrapping was complimentary.”

“I’m sure Nuno will appreciate it,” Rui said dryly. He took the package in his hand. It wasn’t very heavy. The paper gave a little under his fingers, slow and soft, which told him the box under it was padded.

“He’d better. It’s from the best shop in Lisbon. And I think it’d be better if you gave it to him. Then we’re all clear that I just want him to be happy, and I’m not trying to undercut you,” Luís replied. Then he laughed a little, under his breath and sounding more amused than his eyes said he was. He let his hands dangle. “Pep gives me enough of that trouble right now. Him and that David Villa, whom Raúl’s taken to all of a sudden. I don’t need it from Nuno too.”

After another moment, Rui slipped the box into his inside coat pocket. It just fit, so long as he didn’t button the coat up.

He put his hand back on the chair and looked out the window just as a loud honking blast rattled the glass. They watched a truck stop just outside of the house. Luís breathed in more slowly, and Rui straightened up even though neither of them was directly in line with the window. Then the truck started off again amid muffled shouts and both of them relaxed. Just another altercation on the busy streets. It happened twenty times a day if it happened once.

“It’s inconvenient timing, but there’s a little cottage upstate that my realtor was just telling me about the other day. If Baía wants to take a vacation, he might be able to get it at a reasonable price,” Luís said, pushing himself off the chair. Then he turned and went to the sideboard where the telephone was. He picked it up and began to dial a number. “Pep can lend you Xavi or Puyol for a day or two, till Moutinho gets here. Or I think Buffon was saying Tiago’s free—”

“Tiago?”

Luís snorted. “I know, I know, but he does know how to use a shotgun. He might be sensitive but he doesn’t get the shakes when it comes time to pull the trigger.”

“I’d rather get Aimar or Saviola back up from the south,” Rui muttered. He looked at his hand on the chair, then twisted around the chair so it was no longer between him and the door. “Vitor’s off for the next two days. I’m seeing him tomorrow for lunch. I’ll let you know about the cottage afterwards.”

“Rui? If he doesn’t take it?”

“I’ll take care of it. He’s my man. He decided that when he didn’t go with Mourinho.” Rui didn’t miss a step on the way out.

* * *

The problem with a mess was that it took longer to see if everything had cleared afterward. Baía hadn’t had much on his plate, but having to keep Maniche, Nuno Valente and Quaresma under wraps for a few extra days left Rui short on manpower. He had standbys but he didn’t want to use them unless he had to. “If I did, they wouldn’t be standbys. Besides, it takes time to bring people up to date and even then, they’re not used to things so they aren’t comfortable with them. That leads to errors.”

The bed creaked as Nuno threw himself backwards onto it. Rui turned in time to see the man’s legs flop up, then down, so their toes just grazed the floor. He paused, then finished pouring out their drinks and brought them over to the bed.

Nuno’s eyes were closed. His face was serene in the middle of its tousled halo of hair. When Rui sat down on mattress, Nuno’s fingers twitched a little but the other man didn’t move his arms, even though one was barely an inch from Rui. “But if you’re short of men, then you can’t do everything you have to do, and that’s a problem too. Rui, just ask Figo to borrow someone.”

“I can’t. He’s short too,” Rui muttered. He took a long sip from his sambuca. “How was the trip?”

“I have my bed back,” Nuno mumbled after a long moment. His eyes were still closed. He breathed in deeply and his head pressed into the bed. He arched his back, clenching his hands into fists. Then he exhaled in a loud burst through his mouth and fell back, his fingers uncurling. His eyes opened and trained their liquid darkness on Rui. “I hate boats. I was sick the whole time.”

Rui clucked his tongue. He toed his left foot out of its shoe, then swung his left leg onto the bed. Then he leaned over and put the untouched glass on Nuno’s chest. The other man dragged up a hand and took it, and Rui moved his freed hand to rest against Nuno’s brow. “I’m sorry.”

“And it was so small, too. Everything tasted like motor oil and salt. _Everything_.” Nuno closed his eyes again and shuddered. His brow wrinkled under Rui’s palm. Then he shook his head. He pushed away Rui’s arm, gently, and sat up to drink from his glass. “God, that’s better.”

“It’s the new stuff that Maldini’s people are importing,” Rui said.

At that Nuno considered his glass a little more seriously. He swirled it, then took in another mouthful. This one he swished around his mouth before swallowing. Then he nodded. “Which is why Figo’s too short to lend you anybody, because he’s been busy helping Ibrahimović and Maldini take over the shipping business. I should go see Figo.”

“He got you something from Lisbon,” Rui hastily said. He got off the bed and went over to the door where his coat was hanging. It took him a moment to work the box out of his coat-pocket. Behind him he heard two thumps, one after the other, and then rustling cloth.

Rui turned around and Nuno was lying on the bed again, but on his side with his arm thrown out to rest the glass near the edge. The other man’s shoes were off and his tie was lying in a circle near his head. Nuno had one cuff against his mouth and looked like he was biting it. He paused and peered at Rui over the white linen, then finished pulling out the cufflink. He spat the stud into his palm before stretching out and depositing both cufflinks in the tie’s circle.

“Just because Figo gets me something from Lisbon doesn’t mean he gets to beg off helping you,” Nuno said. He rolled over onto his back and sighed. For a moment he was still. Then he put his free hand over his belt buckle. His thumb ran over the buckle’s bottom edge before he began to work the belt loose. “How nice is it?”

“He’s not begging off helping me. Somebody still has to make money to pay the bills, and he and Maldini help the most with that.” Rui came slowly back to the bed. He stopped near Nuno’s outstretched hand, close enough so that when he flexed his knee, it drove into the mattress. He straightened up and sipped more of his drink, watching the belt coil around Nuno’s hand as the other man pulled it off. Then he remembered and he laid the box down by Nuno. “I don’t know what he got you.”

The belt went thwapping softly against the headboard. It dropped onto the pillow as Nuno twisted over. He looked at the box, pushed himself up on his elbow and looked at it again. He brought his free arm down so he could rest on that and drink from his glass. “I didn’t get him anything except a picture of the gravestone.”

“What?”

Nuno looked up at Rui with limpid eyes. “Well, the goddaughter wanted me to see it before I went, since I couldn’t stay for the funeral. It’s…majestic, I think is the word. Impressive carved flowers.”

“You _are_ more frightening than me,” Rui said after a moment. He picked up the tie and cufflinks and put them on the bedside table, then sat down by the headboard. Nuno moved his legs out of the way and Rui pulled his onto the bed, stretching them out as he leaned back against the pillows. “So that part went well?”

“Of course it went well. If it hadn’t, I wouldn’t be back yet,” Nuno said irritably. Then he looked at Rui and the anger faded. He tossed back the rest of his drink and then climbed up next to Rui. He was in such a hurry that he should have been awkward, but the way he threw out his elbows and hips was simply graceful.

Rui took the other man’s glass and put it on the bedside table. Then he turned back, but Nuno was settling himself into that side of Rui so all Rui had to do was lift his arm up and behind the other man’s head. Nuno sank down a little, letting Rui curve his arm down to cup under Nuno’s far arm. He put his head against Rui’s shoulder and began to pull off the bow on the box.

“I don’t have anything for you,” Rui suddenly said. He grimaced and let his head fall back against the wall. “Damn it. I forgot. Quaresma was going to pick up the tickets yesterday, but I forgot to assign that to someone else. Damn it.”

“Tickets? I think I’d rather stay in for a few nights anyway. I’m tired.” The bow dropped from Nuno’s fingers onto Rui’s lap. Nuno started tearing at the paper.

“All right.” The manpower problem _was_ causing strain. Rui grimaced again and stared at the far wall. If he called Aimar tonight, the man could be in town by tomorrow at noon, but he couldn’t use Aimar for any shotgun visits. He knew anyone Guardiola lent him would be more than capable at that kind of thing, but Rui doubted Guardiola would be able to resist the opportunity to extend his influence. He didn’t blame the other man for that vice but he wasn’t going to enable it either.

Something thumped against Rui’s shoulder. He looked down and Nuno sighed, rolling partly onto Rui as he stretched himself to throw the paper wrapping in the wastebasket. “Rui, all I wanted when I got off the boat was to have a decent meal, a hot bath and for you to fuck me all over the bedroom. Oh, and a long lie-in afterwards. I’ve already had the two, now I just need the other two and then I can go take care of whatever Vitor left undone.”

The scraps of paper had long since left Nuno’s fingers but he was still lying on Rui. His chin dug into Rui’s breast. He pulled up his arm and put his hand on Rui’s side, then slid it down to Rui’s waist. He grinned at Rui’s reluctant chuckle. His hand flexed into Rui’s hip and he rose up a little.

Rui stopped chuckling. Nuno exhaled irritably and dropped back down. It was hard enough to knock the wind for Rui for a few seconds. Then Rui recovered his breath and put a hand on Nuno’s shoulder; Nuno turned his head sideways and wouldn’t look at him. Rui started stroking Nuno’s hair. “Look, I appreciate it but it’s all…you just came back from a hard trip, and what I’ve got is nothing difficult. There’s just a lot of it. I don’t like making you do wetwork when it’s—”

“Rui, I’m volunteering,” Nuno said. He pushed himself back up and got both hands over Rui’s shoulders. Then he frowned and pulled back his right hand. He and Rui looked at the gold watch dangling from it. The watch twisted on its chain so Rui could see the…the mating eagles embossed on it, their feet clasped together as they whirled around within an elaborately detailed wreath. Then Nuno tossed it onto the bed with a disgusted snort. “Luís is not as witty as he thinks he is. And I’m not as genteel as you are. You’re going to fuck me and then you’re going to let me do what I do. All right, Rui?”

“It’s not that I’m doubting your abilities, Nuno. I believe in them more than…than I believe in God sometimes. But I don’t want—”

Nuno heaved himself up from Rui’s chest with a loud sigh and Rui braced himself for the sharp retort. Instead he got a soft mouth on his mouth; he started and Nuno’s mouth turned hungry. It had teeth and they sank into Rui’s lower lip as he let an exclamation slip out. His exclamation became a hiss and he dragged hard on Nuno’s hair. Then he remembered himself and tried to shake his fingers free, but the silky strands had already tangled up around them.

He put his hand back against Nuno’s head and Nuno pressed his hands down against Rui’s chest. Nuno’s nails dug in through Rui’s clothes, leaving hot burning trails behind. Rui twisted himself off the headboard and the nails scored down him, only to be stopped roughly by his belt. He groaned even though Nuno was arched over him so they only touched at mouth and at those nails. His fingers restlessly pulled through Nuno’s hair.

Rui twisted himself off the headboard and got his arm over Nuno’s shoulders. Then he brought it back and pulled at Nuno’s collar. The little metal stud that held it together slipped out of Rui’s fingers and he cursed into Nuno’s mouth. He ducked his head to search for it and a warm tongue lashed over his ear. He shuddered but Nuno’s hands clamped around his head and held it still as Nuno coiled his tongue-tip behind into the soft flesh behind Rui’s ear. Then Nuno bit down.

The stud dropped out of Rui’s mind. He pushed Nuno roughly over, blind because he couldn’t stop kissing the other man’s neck. Nuno’s body wrapped around him, knees bumping into Rui’s left ribs, and then Nuno unwound himself. Not gracefully, not with his nails now scoring at Rui’s shoulders. He writhed till he got his knee between them and Rui snarled because he was trying to get Nuno’s shirt undone and it was hard enough dealing with the small buttons. Nuno inhaled quick and high, and finished yanking his leg out on Rui’s other side. Rui dropped low between Nuno’s legs, running his mouth up and down Nuno’s throat, pushing away Nuno’s shirt with his hands. He shoved it off the man’s shoulders and then rumpled up the undershirt beneath it.

Nuno mumbled to himself, then jerked up his head and arms and Rui yanked off both shirts at the same time. Then Nuno fell back and Rui dove after him. Rui’s mouth touched Nuno’s collarbone and Nuno shivered; it tracked down Nuno’s breastbone and Nuno grabbed Rui’s head again before abruptly pushing it away. The other man half-sat up, then wrapped his arm over Rui’s neck for support. He used his free hand to rid Rui of his belt, snap the collar loose, unhook the suspenders, undo the front of Rui’s trousers. Rui dodged and contorted himself around the hand so he could keep caressing Nuno’s chest with his mouth.

The trousers began to slide down Rui’s hips. He pressed a kiss to Nuno’s rib, just under the left nipple, and then turned away. He felt Nuno’s fingers slap lightly over his back before they hooked into the waistband of his trousers. Rui stretched out for the bedstand and jerked open the drawer. His hand went into it as Nuno’s hand nearly ripped his trousers off instead of down to his knees. Rui cursed again, dropping the bottle. He got it up a second time and got off the cap. Cold pale lotion spilled over his hand.

When he turned back Nuno had come up by him. Nuno grabbed Rui’s arm and kissed the point of Rui’s shoulder through Rui’s shirt. His mouth left a wet, warm spot. Then he dragged Rui back onto the bed, on top of him. His hand ran down Rui’s arm to the wrist, then pushed Rui’s hand up high between his bare legs. His discarded clothing made Rui’s knees slide as he bent over the other man.

He felt too tight around the first finger. It’d been too long, but that was what made it hard for Rui to even think of slowing down. And Nuno didn’t want to either: he had his eyes wide open, rolling up as he gasped, but his fingers around Rui’s wrist were like iron and they kept pulling Rui towards him. Rui bit his lip and Nuno reared up and bit his jaw, and Rui forced in another finger. Nuno whipped against the bed, his eyes snapping open and shut. He was shaking when Rui kissed his neck. He started to growl when Rui pulled out his fingers, and then hooked his left hand around Rui’s right hip. Rui dropped back on Nuno, skin to skin. The sheer weight quieted the other man for a moment.

Then Rui planted his hands in the bed and rocked up. Nuno’s arms came around him and locked tight as the other man drove himself down. It happened too fast but Nuno was swearing constantly now, his words stinging like red-hot sparks in Rui’s ear. He hissed, then wrapped his legs around Rui and Rui put his hands on Nuno’s thighs to help. Long and lean, with a little roughness from the hair, roughness that felt good against Rui’s rough palms and Rui pulled at them. He used them to pull Nuno onto his prick, into his pumping hips, and Nuno’s swearing began to break up, like glass falling from a shattered bottle.

They rolled over, then back again. Nuno jerked his legs up and down. The heels of his feet and hands gouged into Rui. Then the hands forced themselves down and the legs fell apart, trembling.

Rui barely heard Nuno’s gasping cry. He was still working towards his own oblivion, steadily but surely climbing till he suddenly, unexpectedly lost his rhythm. He tried to find it again but he stuttered again, and then he was out of control, twisting and shaking on top of Nuno as the other man’s hands rode his trembling. He rasped a breath into Nuno’s hair. His eyes stung. His head was spinning.

He rasped another breath. This one hurt less. Rui raised his head and he could start to see again. He breathed a third time, and then raised himself on his arms. Nuno looked up at Rui, hair stuck across a sweaty forehead, those deep-set eyes of his reflecting Rui’s own hazy pleasure. Rui smiled and bent down to kiss him.

* * *

Nuno called that he’d answer it and padded lazily across the room. He didn’t limp so much as sway lopsidedly, so the long tails of his shirt clung admirably to the swells of his buttocks. He made it to the phone as it was on its seventh ring. His brow furrowed slightly as he answered the call, but then he smiled. He relaxed and leaned against the wall, chatting away.

Rui turned back into the washroom. He glanced at the mirror, then sighed and looked away. He began to search around the sink for his watch.

A knock came at the door. Nuno briefly paused on the phone and Rui went back into the bedroom. The other man gestured for Rui to get it.

After a moment, Rui crossed the room and put his hand on the door-knob. “Yes?”

“It’s me,” Sabrosa said.

Rui opened the door. He watched Sabrosa look at his jaw and neck and then look hastily down. The other man coughed to cover his flush.

“Simão?” Nuno called.

“Oh, shit,” Sabrosa muttered. Then he grimaced and grabbed a fistful of hair. He gave Rui an apologetic look, then twisted his head to call back in Nuno’s direction. “Nuno! Welcome back! Er, I’m sorry, but—”

“Who is it?” Rui asked.

Sabrosa started, then straightened up. “They hit two of our warehouses on the south docks. One held them off, but with the other one, they ruined fifty cases. Nobody dead, but we’ve got a runner in the hospital and another one that wasn’t that bad, just a broken leg, so I sent him to a safehouse. The doc should be with him right now.”

Rui swore and put his hand to his forehead. “Who was on them?”

“Marchena and Meira. Marchena’s the one who didn’t get damaged, but he also had Villa and Silva over there, and he can’t give me a good reason why,” Sabrosa said. He pursed his lips. “Meira’s saying it’s the beat cop’s fault. He showed up with them, so that’s why Meira couldn’t fight them off.”

“You know which cop?” When Sabrosa told him, Rui relaxed a little. He was angry but he knew that policeman and he knew they could take care of the man themselves. They wouldn’t have to see Luís, who inevitably would have to talk to Raúl. “All right. He’s got a thing for a dancer at the Anchor. Patricia.”

Sabrosa raised his eyebrows. “I know her. I don’t think she’d give him the time of…ah, I’ll see her. She’ll probably help on the cheap, just because she hates that kind of ass that much.”

“Maybe, but don’t stiff her. We can afford to set him up properly. We can’t afford for it to go wrong and get more bad press,” Rui told Sabrosa. “I’ll talk to Meira later.”

“What about Marchena?”

Rui looked away. He put his hand on the jamb and leaned on it. Then he pushed off it and straightened up. He looked at Sabrosa again. “Since he didn’t lose anything tonight, he can afford to help out elsewhere. Tell him to give Meira a hand cleaning up. Don’t do anything else. I’ll get back to him.”

“All right,” Sabrosa said slowly. He’d been with them long enough to know what that meant, and to know not to ask about it.

There was a click inside the bedroom: Nuno was hanging up. Rui started to turn towards it, but glimpsed Sabrosa lifting a hand. He turned back. “Something else?”

“I don’t know.” Then Sabrosa winced. He grabbed his shoulder and pulled on it, then ran his hand over his hair. “I just got a call from Tiago. He was complaining, saying Baía got drunk in a bar and he had to take off a job to get him home, and Buffon wasn’t happy with him. But he was just complaining.”

Tiago did complain a lot, and he still kept in touch for that much, for all that he was mostly with Buffon’s crew now. But something about it hadn’t set right with Sabrosa, for all that he wouldn’t come out and say it.

“You want me to look into it?” Sabrosa asked.

“No,” Rui said after a long moment. “No. Keep an eye on Marchena, and take care of that cop.”

Sabrosa nodded and went off down the hall. Rui shut the door and turned, and grimaced at the look Nuno was giving him.

“Vitor doesn’t drink,” Nuno said.

“He had one a few days ago,” Rui replied. He ruffled one hand through his hair, then went over to the phone. Then he shook his head. “It was right after—”

“I already heard from Maniche about it.” Nuno turned so he was resting both shoulders against the wall. His gaze went up and down Rui. Then he pushed himself off the wall and put his hand on Rui’s arm. “I don’t see anything wrong with a drink then, but if he’s still taking it badly…”

Rui took his hand off the phone. Then he put it back on. “It’s only been a few days, Nuno. And they were close.”

“The same goes for you, but you’re not drinking yourself under a bar.” Then Nuno exhaled irritably. He took his hand off Rui and went around to the closet, where he began to pull at shirts. “Don’t feel guilty now. You know it won’t be because you regret making that decision. It’ll just be selfish.”

“I’m going to talk to Vitor,” Rui said firmly. He took the phone off its hook. “I didn’t do it afterward, because I was busy trying to make sure everything would be cleaned up. I should have. I’ll do that and see what’s going on.”

Nuno kept pushing at the clothes-hangers. Then he sighed and bowed his head into the suits. He stayed there, shoulders hunched up under his thin shirt, and Rui would have gone over but the call had gone through and a sleepy Aimar was asking who it was. Rui told him, and then told him to get packed and get back into town as soon as possible.

Then Rui hung up, but Nuno had already turned around. He came back and put his hands on Rui’s shoulders. He held Rui at arm’s length and looked at him. Then he smiled wryly. He dropped his hands but stepped forward at the same time, so for a moment Rui thought the other man was falling on him. Rui put up his hands, then held them in the air as Nuno kissed his cheek.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Nuno said serenely. “You are coming back for breakfast, aren’t you?”

“I’ll try, but I have a lot to do.” Rui finally lowered his hands. His left he put down at his side, but he let his right hand graze Nuno’s arm.

Nuno’s gaze darkened. “You’ll try?”

“All right, all right. I just might be a little late, so don’t have the cook wait for me,” Rui muttered. He curled his hand around Nuno’s arm and pulled a little. After a moment Nuno came, and let Rui kiss him on the mouth. Rui pressed his lips to Nuno’s brow as well, while Nuno was allowing it, and then turned away.

* * *

As a matter of courtesy, Rui let Luís know about the latest hits. In return he received assurances that Maldini could dig up something to replace the ruined booze. Their orders would still be filled, though of course now they would have to share the profits with Maldini and Ibrahimović. It wasn’t what Rui would have liked, but there was no malice in it, only pragmatism. That he could see at the moment, at least.

He also asked Luís about Villa and Silva, and Luís sounded surprised to hear it. The other man told Rui he’d check with Raúl or Guardiola and get back as soon as possible.

Sabrosa had already left the house, so Rui called up Ribeiro to pick him up. First he had the man drive him to the docks where he talked to Meira. It took a while for Rui to hear what had happened, as Meira’s temper hadn’t cooled and he kept insisting on taking care of the cop himself. Rui had to straighten him out before Meira finally saw the sense in having Sabrosa do it: if anything went wrong, Meira would be the obvious suspect.

That settled, Rui headed back uptown. He stopped in at a few of their joints to check on business. Receipts were still coming in strong, even if they were suffering too many losses to their supplies. Once they secured their supply lines, it shouldn’t take long for them to recover their lost profits.

At the last place, Rui was nearly to the door before he spotted a familiar face. He stopped and watched Guardiola walk into a backroom. The other man was deep in conversation with Ibrahimović, of all people.

Rui told the doorman to let Ribeiro know it’d be a little longer, then headed for that backroom. He had to pause for a waiter with a large platter of food, so it didn’t surprise him to find Guardiola alone in the room once he had reached it.

Guardiola was sitting on the couch. He had a drink and a plate of food on the table before him, and a copy of the day’s racing results on his knee. There weren’t any signs that anyone else had been in the room.

He smiled and rose when he saw Rui. They shook hands and Rui dropped a few words about how surprised he was to see Guardiola in this part of town. Usually the other man preferred to be farther uptown, closer to his base of operations.

“Well, I came looking for you,” Guardiola said. His eyes were open, steady. There was no hitch in his movements as he swung back down onto the couch. “I’d like to talk.”

“All right, that’s fine.” Rui took a seat in a chair to Guardiola’s left. He flipped out the sides of his suit-jacket so they wouldn’t wrinkle, then rested his arms on his knees. “But this isn’t usually how we do it.”

Guardiola nodded. “I know, but I didn’t want the fuss of going through formal channels,” he said, glancing at the folded paper in his hand. Then he tossed it onto the cushion beside him. He exhaled deeply and leaned back against the couch, looking at Rui. His lean, almost knife-thin body cut into the overstuffed upholstery. “Especially when it might be a delicate matter. There’s no need to bring in the others to complicate things.”

“If it’s that sensitive, then I’d think it’s even more important to let everyone know what’s going on,” Rui said slowly.

For a few moments Guardiola gazed at him. In defiance of fashion, Guardiola kept his hair close-cropped like a soldier, or a convict. The cut left his high brow unsoftened and let his large, intense eyes dominate his face. More than once Rui had seen men’s wills crumble merely under a look from the other man, and that before they’d even had the power and the money. It wasn’t how long or how hard Guardiola looked, or how deeply he looked. What made that stare unnerving was how unwavering it was. Even when he was at his most excited, blood flushed up in his face, mouth spewing orders and obscenities, Guardiola kept that strange coolness in his eyes. It grounded him beyond what was natural.

Guardiola suddenly smiled. He rocked forward to put his elbows on his thighs and bent his head so the light flashed across the edge of his teeth. “Rui, I’m hearing that you’re worried about me.”

“Only as much as I’m worried about everyone. These attacks are getting bolder as they’re getting more desperate. It’s like running down a beast,” Rui said. “The closer you get to killing it, the closer it gets to killing you.”

“That’s a good way of putting it.” Then Guardiola sighed and straightened up. He looked to the right while running his hand over the top of his head. “But that’s not what I’m talking about.”

Rui pursed his lips. Then he pushed off his knees. He flicked his elbows off to the side, resettling his suit-jacket across his shoulders, and then took his watch out of his pocket. “Well, then what is it? If it’s so important that you come down to see me, I’ll listen of course, but I wasn’t expecting you and—”

“I’m hearing that you think _I’m_ the danger,” Guardiola said. He spoke more softly, but his voice was crisper. His hand glided off his head to the back of his neck and he tugged at that, as if they were sitting at a streetcorner and chatting like old men. “That you’re worried about me.”

Outside someone stumbled down the hall. They fell hard against the wall. Guardiola didn’t move. Not a single muscle in him tensed.

After another moment, Rui put his watch back in his pocket. He took out his hand and looked at it, then turned it over so its palm was up. He cupped his other hand under it except for the thumb, which lapped over it. “I’m for this war as much as you are. I cast my vote and I’ll live with it.”

“That’s not what I’m asking about.”

“It is and you need to let me finish speaking before you ask again,” Rui said sharply. He pressed the ball of his thumb hard into his palm as he looked up. Then he blew breath hard through his nose and threw himself back against his chair. “You’re the one who brought up the subject. Credit to you for that. But you couldn’t have carried the vote without us. And you needed all of us. You can’t drop any single one without having a bad effect.”

“I wasn’t planning to. Far from it,” Guardiola replied. He seemed a little less hasty, but his gaze on Rui was no less intense. “We’re all equals. That’s why we vote.”

Rui tucked his chin towards his chest. Then he turned his head away from Guardiola. He pulled at his collar, then rubbed at the side of his jaw. “Voting doesn’t say a damn thing by itself.” He heard Guardiola inhale and snorted. “Listen, Guardiola. I’m not about to come after you. I think what you do is necessary to everybody. If it wasn’t you, it’d be someone else and I think you happen to be the best one for it. But we’re none of us fools. Even if we don’t raise it, we’re watching you.”

It was quiet for a while. Guardiola moved back and forth so the couch creaked almost in time with the faint strands of the band in the front room. Then he sighed. Rui looked back at him and the other man was rising. He straightened to his full height before he bent over to pick at his plate. It reminded Rui of a stork and Rui smiled.

Guardiola looked at him. Rui tightened his mouth, then hitched his shoulders up and down. He let the smile stay on his face.

“I don’t have any intention of overturning the board,” Guardiola said. Something about the way he spoke made his words vibrate through the room, like a plucked string. Then he grinned. His grin cracked and let out a laugh, strangely boyish against the dark suit and darker eyes. “I don’t want that. We set it up because we all saw what happens when one man thinks he can rule the world. I don’t want to rule the world. I just want to make sure things are taken care of.”

“Ah,” Rui said. He smiled as well.

The other man looked at his plate again. He rubbed a finger over his upper lip, then dropped both hands to his hips. He shrugged. “It’s a wonderful place you have here, Rui. My compliments to the cook, though I’ve got to leave now. I appreciate you taking the time—”

“That’s what they always say in the beginning.” Rui glanced at Guardiola, then got up himself. He took his time about it, and then spent a moment brushing himself down once he was standing. Then he looked back at the other man. “That they want to take care of things.”

Guardiola’s brows rose. Then they lowered and he nodded deferentially. One hand slipped into a trouser-pocket, then came out empty. He gazed at it. “Mmm, yes. And I’ve learned from them. I won’t err where they erred.”

“I believe that.”

“Do you?” Guardiola asked, flicking his gaze up.

Rui smiled again. “I believe you when you say that, Pep. But it’s not about what I believe. It’s about what’s necessary.”

“That’s why you shouldn’t worry,” Guardiola said abruptly. He put out his hand. It could have touched Rui if Rui hadn’t stiffened. For a moment Guardiola considered his hand, and then he took a step forward. He clasped Rui’s shoulder; his grasp was firm but not iron. “I think people like you are necessary. Keep watching. If you see anything, you let me know.”

“You would hear first from Raúl or Luís, wouldn’t you?” Rui stood where he was but didn’t raise his hand to Guardiola’s arm.

Guardiola’s hand tightened once more before falling away. He stepped back so the swing of his arm to his side finished with them a good yard apart. “I don’t know,” he said. He laughed and it was uneven, but not from uncertainty. The look in his eyes hadn’t changed. “With them I’ll have to see. That’s why I need you.”

“Thank you,” Rui said after a moment. He moved out of the way so Guardiola could come around the table. Then he turned to keep the other man’s back in view. He moved up a step. “Tell Villa and Silva I’ll call you when I want them around.”

By then Guardiola had nearly reached the door. His hand brushed it, then ran sideways across the wood as he turned. His brows were arched again. “I’ll tell Raúl. They answer to him now.”

He waited, but Rui didn’t say anything else. Guardiola raised that steady gaze of his to Rui’s face. The man put his hand on the knob, turned it and went out into the hall. Rui watched.

* * *

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Rui said, handing over his hat and coat. He smiled his thanks at the woman who took them, then slipped a fat envelope into her apron pocket as he went around her.

The building had seen better days, but this apartment was fixed up well, the repairs blending into the faded wallpaper and scratched wood trim. The hallway was narrow but didn’t feel tight to Rui, and the kitchen was well-lit and welcoming. The woman’s husband was sitting at the table but he was already trying to rise when Rui came into the room. The man was hampered by a thick cast on his leg and to make it easier on him, Rui went up to him.

They embraced. The woman bustled in and insisted on offering Rui a cup of coffee, which he sipped as he asked how they were doing, if the leg was healing well. His questioning turned up a few minor difficulties, but he settled them before he left. He was out in a half-hour.

At the front door Rui stopped and had a word with the two men keeping guard in the lobby. He left them more watchful for possible hit squads, and with the promise of a bonus if they did their duty properly. In a perfect world money shouldn’t be needed to buy loyalty and brotherhood, but Rui knew what kind of world it was.

* * *

Del Piero tended to go to bed early since that aborted hit that had nearly left him crippled, so it was Buffon who met Rui at the garage office. Buffon stood in the doorway for a moment, blinking slowly. He was only in his shirt-sleeves, with no vest and no collar, and if one didn’t look at the irritation in those heavy-lidded eyes, one might take him for sleepy.

Then Buffon turned around. He went back into his office and his new man, the Romanian, handed him the phone. “Tiago went out on a delivery but he’s due back any time now,” Buffon said. He listened to the phone, then put it against his shoulder and looked at his waiting man. “Adrian. Show Rui Costa to—”

“I’ll wait here,” Rui said. He was a little bemused—Buffon rarely used first names—but not so much that he didn’t note the hostile look from Buffon’s man.

Buffon glanced at Rui as he put the phone back to his ear. He said a few curt words into it, then hung up. “Fine. Adrian, I’ll deal with the guns later. Go down and ask Mauro where we are with the trucks.”

Adrian didn’t hesitate to obey but as he passed Rui on his way out, his eyes flicked down Rui. Head to armpits, to small of back and hands, and then probably to Rui’s ankles, a familiar numbering off. Rui closed the door behind Adrian, then cocked a brow at Buffon. “I suppose you won’t be asking for my men anymore.”

“No, I’m perfectly happy to outsource that work to you or Larsson, as it may be. Adrian has other useful skills,” Buffon said calmly. He began to shuffle through some papers on his desk, then stopped to push at his shoulder. He grimaced and gripped the joint, then exhaled slowly. Then he resumed reading. “This is about Baía.”

“Did you see him?” Rui asked.

Buffon picked up a pen and wiped its nib off on a scrap of paper. He bent over the desk and noted something down. “Tiago brought him here first. He had to. He was in the middle of something for me and I wanted to see that he had an excuse.”

Rui held in his sigh, but he did push two fingers into the spot between his brows. Then he moved them to his temple. He rubbed it briefly.

“I do not appreciate it when people who aren’t in my business tell me how to do it,” Buffon said. He glanced at Rui, then straightened up. Now it was his arm that was paining him and he pushed at it with his knuckles. Then he sighed and tossed down his pen. He cradled that arm against his chest as he turned and fully faced Rui. “Baía’s your man, on your business and I know as much about that as I need to. Care to. But you should keep him home. He was talking to a detective in that bar, but I pay that man’s bills so he’s forgotten all about it.”

“Thank you,” Rui said immediately. He paused, then slowly unclenched his jaw. He looked to the side, then at the floor. “Thank…you very much.”

A shoe scraped the floor. Rui looked up and Buffon was behind his desk. The other man sat down in his chair and gazed at Rui. He was still cradling his arm and occasionally his fingers would move in a slow oval along it. “Adrian has some difficulties with old debts,” he said in measured tones. “It wouldn’t be a problem except that his creditors are mostly in Romania, and the distance makes it hard to oversee payments.”

Rui nodded. “I have some friends in Florence who are used to working with people in that country. I’ll put you and them in touch.”

Then Buffon dropped his gaze from Rui. He retrieved his pen and began writing again.

Rui let himself out. He went down the hall and stopped by the stairs. No one was coming up them or coming towards him in the hall, so Rui slowly let out his breath. He looked down and watched his hands curl into tight fists. His jaw hurt; he had to force himself to unlock it. Then he shook himself. He went into the staircase.

Adrian was coming back up. He told Rui that Tiago was downstairs and Rui thanked him as well. Then Rui went down.

* * *

Tiago had little more to add to Buffon’s account, except that he was sorry about it, and felt sorry for Baía. That didn’t matter, but Rui let off Tiago lightly. He was certain Buffon had already seen to any reprimanding Tiago deserved, and as Buffon had said, it was better not to get involved in other people’s business.

There was still Meira, but it was nearly breakfast-time and Rui felt tired. He stopped at a drugstore and called Meira to schedule a meeting the next day. Then he went home.

Nuno was waiting for him in the dining room. He half-rose as Rui entered, then sat back down. The cook came in to ask if Rui wanted anything more filling than the pastries and rolls already on the table. After a moment’s thought, Rui asked for some of the leftover pork from last night. The cook left to get it and Rui let himself slouch in his seat. He closed his eyes.

It was silent for only a few seconds. Then Rui heard the clink of Nuno’s cup and saucer, the slight gurgle as the other man drank his coffee. Bread tore with a ragged crunch. The crisp stinging smell of marmalade filled the air.

Rui opened his eyes. “I want to talk to Baía first.”

The cup rattled hard so Rui looked at it. Then he looked up, but Nuno had already gotten out of his chair and was moving behind Rui. He put his hands on Rui’s shoulders and let them ride Rui’s stiffening. His fingers gently pressed and relaxed till Rui let his shoulders fall. Then Nuno bent over Rui. His hair tickled down Rui’s cheeks as he kissed Rui on the brow.

“Have a little coffee,” Nuno said. He went to Rui’s left and picked up the pot, then filled Rui’s cup. Then he handed cup and saucer to Rui. He added sugar and milk while Rui held up the cup. Then he went back to his seat. His eyes rose to Rui’s face as he took up the roll he’d been eating. “Aimar called. I’ll go pick him up from the station when he comes.”

“I—”

Nuno looked sharply at Rui. “I’ll get him. After you have your nap, you have to see—”

“Oh, yes. No, I remember. All right.” Rui moved his hand a little. He heard his coffee slop against the cup and glanced down, but he hadn’t spilled any of it. After a moment, he lifted the mug to his lips. “I’ll pick you up after dinner.”

Nuno nodded. The cook came back with Rui’s meat and they ate breakfast.

* * *

Baía was sober and had made an effort to dress himself, but that made it harder to listen to him. He had his wits about him but he was still telling Rui the wrong things. “I know I shouldn’t have gotten drunk, and I won’t do it again. I emptied them all out into the sink.” He waved his arm at the bag of bottles. “And I’ll take it for being so stupid, for talking about things to strangers. I was an idiot. I had to talk to somebody, but I know I should’ve talked to one of us. To you.”

Rui opened his mouth. Then he closed it and sank against the wall. He still had his coat on, even though it was too warm in Baía’s place. He wiped a trickle of sweat from his brow. “But what’s there to talk about?”

For a moment Baía stared at him. Then Baía turned sharply away. He shook his head, then shook his whole body. Then he twisted and dropped into a chair, looking at Rui again. “I can’t believe it. Is that how long it takes you to forget?”

“I don’t forget anything,” Rui said too sharply. He stopped and made himself breathe. He couldn’t get upset here, right now. He had to listen and to think. “Vitor. You—”

“I know what I said then. But…” Baía looked away. He put up his hand and made a fist of it, and pressed his knuckles into his cheek. Then he exhaled. His head went back into the chair and his fist smacked into the chair’s arm. “Look, Rui. It’s a bargain. You know that, we’ve both always known that. You don’t get this money and the houses and the ability to have anything you want served up on a platter without paying for it. And maybe it’s not always a good bargain.”

Then Baía fell quiet. He slumped in his seat, staring off at the far wall. He didn’t stir when Rui straightened up and began to move around. His fingers twitched once as Rui pulled up a chair, but he didn’t look at Rui.

“I know what he did. I know he turned his back on us. But why does that mean we turn our back on him?” Baía said abruptly. He shifted in his seat. Then he smiled thinly. “I know, because he would’ve gotten us all killed. But I’m beginning to wonder if maybe that wouldn’t be better.”

“To have him alive and not you?” Rui asked after a long, long time. He kept his voice soft. His nails were beginning to raise blood from his palms.

Baía jerked his head into the chair. His eyes closed. “Maybe. Why does he deserve to lose, and we to win? Are we better than him? I don’t know. I don’t know that I’m the one to decide that.”

Rui looked at the other man for a while. He studied the shadows under Baía’s eyes, the way Baía’s shoulders sunk in on themselves. He swallowed a few times, hard and silent. Then he sighed and got up. “I’m sorry, Vitor. I think I came a little too—”

Now Baía looked at him. The man was smiling again. It was bitter but still a touch of affection lingered. When Baía put out his hand and clasped Rui’s wrist, he didn’t show any malice in his face or in his actions. “No, I’m sorry. I’m…I don’t know. I’m tired. I don’t know a lot of the people coming around anymore. Since José went…”

“Mourinho wouldn’t have accepted this kind of talk. He would have wanted you to keep fighting.” Rui gently freed his hand. Then he went forward and put it on Baía’s shoulder. He let it rest a moment before he turned away, to the door. “Get some sleep, Vitor. We’ll talk later.”

Baía didn’t see Rui to the door. From the sound of things, the other man stayed in the chair for a few minutes. Then he got up and moved in the opposite direction. He wasn’t there when Rui let himself into the hall and looked to the right, at Nuno who was leaning against the wall. Rui pressed his lips together, then nodded tightly.

Nuno swung off the wall and slipped inside. Then Maniche came up from the left. He took over the door so Rui could go downstairs and out to the car. Rui got into the backseat and closed his eyes. He breathed in and out, then bent forward. He put his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands together against his brow.

A few minutes later Rui opened his eyes and leaned back. He tapped on the glass separating front and back. Ribeiro pushed it back and Rui told him to go. Maniche would drive Nuno home afterwards.

* * *

“Oh, I almost forgot. Mourinho passed along a message,” Luís said, turning back.

At the sideboard Nuno went still. His eyes went from Luís to Rui. Then he carefully set down the decanter as Rui let go of the doorknob.

“He said congratulations. Now you understand failure as well as winning,” Luís finished, watching Rui carefully.

Rui nodded. Then he opened the door for Luís. “Well, I don’t know if you’ll have a chance to thank him for me, but I appreciate that.”

“I doubt it. But I doubt he needs the thanks either.” Luís called out a farewell to Nuno and then left.

Nuno picked up the decanter again. He took out two glasses, then frowned when Rui came up to him and pushed them away. Rui plucked the decanter from his hand as well, and locked it in the liquor cabinet. “It’s all right,” he said. “It just means he accepts my reasons.”

“What did you tell him?” Nuno asked. He put his hands on either side of Rui’s waist. His brow was still furrowed.

“What I tell everyone.” Rui kissed the other man lightly on the lips. He stood easy in Nuno’s hold. “Failure isn’t an option.”

After a moment, Nuno kissed him back. Then he held Rui out at arm’s length, studying Rui’s face. “I know it’s not that simple for you, Rui.”

“But it is. You can’t fail. If you do…then it all goes. And I can’t stand to see that.” Rui stroked his hand down Nuno’s cheek. “It’s hard but I have to do it.”

“I know,” Nuno said quietly. He glanced down, then raised his head and smiled at Rui. His fingers curled against Rui’s back. Then he bent forward and rested his head on Rui’s shoulder. He breathed in and out once. “Don’t be late for dinner.”

Rui touched Nuno’s jaw, then gently pushed back the other man. He kissed Nuno’s temple as a goodbye before he turned away. They went to the door together, but at the door Nuno turned towards the back, and Rui towards the front. They would meet again later.


	6. Number Four

Pep tugged again at his collar. His knuckle bumped into the edge of his jaw and he felt a trickle of sweat slip from his cheek onto his finger, then into his shirt before he could wipe it off. He grimaced again, then stumbled sharply forward. His arm jerked down and he nearly ripped his collar off.

Then he looked up into Luís’ grinning face. The other man shoved a pair of glasses at Pep and the misted surface of one was a chilly shock against Pep’s cheek. Pep gasped and Luís laughed. The glass slid off Pep’s face and let him straighten up before Luís pressed it into his hand. “Not a bad place, isn’t it?”

It was filled from wall to wall. The ebb of the crowd had given Luís space to slip over to Pep, but now the people around them pressed in again. Luís swayed into Pep’s arm and trapped it up against Pep’s belly. The glass in Pep’s hand dug at his thigh, but Pep had no room to shift it away. “It’s…”

“Wait a moment, the band will be in a moment,” Luís said. He somehow got up his glass and swigged from it, then pivoted to sling his arm around Pep’s neck. The rough cloth of his sleeve scratched at Pep’s sweaty nape. “Oh, here we are.”

He twisted Pep to look to the right, where a sliver of a stage could be glimpsed just above the shoulders of the crowd. Three men in dark suits and one woman in a glittering dress that moved like liquid silver were climbing onto it. Other people in the club began to notice and a low murmur went around, followed by a small cheer from a section near the stage.

“You’ll like them,” Luís murmured right into Pep’s ear. Then he put his glass up to his mouth and chuckled through his drink; the glass’s bottom grazed Pep’s jaw while Luís’ knuckles pushed lightly at Pep’s cheekbone. “Relax. Have your drink. You can’t study your whole life.”

“I know, and that’s why I’m here.” Pep twisted a little and found some space for his arm. He raised his glass and started to look into it, then shook his head. He took a good gulp of it and blinked. Then he took another, more considering drink.

The woman trilled off a lush, soaring scale that effortlessly snaked through the heated, smoky air. It held counterpoint to Luís’ deep, amused voice. “And here I thought it was for my birthday. I’m hurt.”

“Well, that too,” Pep said. Then he laughed and let his drink spill from the indignant elbow Luís pushed into his ribs. “This is a lousy seat, Luís. I can’t even see if that’s a drum set or a piano up there.”

“That’s because we’re standing and absorbing the whole atmosphere, like modern connoisseurs. But if you insist on being boring and conservative, and having a proper table, I’ll see what I can do.” Luís had already dropped his arm from Pep’s shoulders.

Slightly cooler air touched the back of Pep’s neck for just the briefest moment, a light caress. Then Luís was dragging him through the crowd by the arm, and the stifling heat had closed in on all sides. Pep was wearing a new suit and the starch in it smelled like stale glue, welling up as his sweat soaked it out of the cloth. He nearly lost his glass as it caught on someone’s crooked arm and he couldn’t tell if his hissed apology managed to flow back through the press to the victim. Luís was pulling him forward too quickly.

But the room was larger than it seemed with all the people crushed into it. By the time Pep and Luís emerged near the stage, the band was already well into their first song. They were good enough that they didn’t skip a beat when Pep stumbled into the stage’s edge; Pep felt a nudge at his shoulder that helped him right himself, then looked up into the singer’s smile.

“It’s his birthday!” Luís told her, grinning. Then he wheeled Pep around before Pep could correct him.

The last of Pep’s drink sloshed out over his sleeve. He cursed and looked down, but was tugged sideways before his eyes even landed on the stain. Then he looked left, at Luís, but the other man had already let go. Pep turned around and started sharply when he found Luís right up by his shoulder.

“I can’t take you anywhere,” Luís said. He used a scolding tone but didn’t even try to make his face match it. “You’re like a piece of wood.”

“You made me—and then—it isn’t even my birthday, it’s yours,” Pep finally said. The hot, stuffy air had already half-dried his sleeve so it was sticking to his wrist. He twisted away from Luís and picked at his cuff, then stopped. He looked around and found a place to put his empty glass. “And—”

Luís slouched against the wall. The suit he had on was one Pep had seen more than a few times before, but the other man had a new tie and pocket handkerchief that went far better with it than Pep’s. He had broader shoulders as well, which suited better the current style. He looked like he could call this kind of place, with its smoky air and smokier music, his rightful home.

He raised his brows when Pep never continued. “And?”

Pep closed his mouth. He shook his head a few times, then glanced towards the stage. The singer had her eyes on the rest of the crowd, shimmying her dress to best show off her curves, but the bass player was looking at them. He unexpectedly tipped Pep a wink before adding an extra flourish to his next chord.

Something pushed by Pep’s head. It snagged his ear so he turned his head away, then back. Then he blinked to refocus his eyes. Luís was pressed close again, leaning on his hand on the wall behind Pep’s head. He shifted and his other hand brushed Pep’s hip, then withdrew. “So? How is it?”

“It’s your birthday,” Pep said after a moment. “The music’s your choice. The place, too.”

“It’s not any good if you don’t like it.” Luís still had his glass. He raised it to eye-level and let it dangle from his fingers. Then he shrugged roughly and tossed back the last of his drink.

He turned back sooner than Pep had thought he would, so Pep’s hand caught in his hair instead of landing on Luís’ shoulder. Pep took it out and straightened up so he wasn’t slouching against the wall. “I like it. For once you picked a place with…”

“Class?” Luís offered, grinning again. He let his glass rattle down next to Pep’s before pushing off the wall. A woman in a red dress walked by and he nodded to her, but looked back at Pep just as she began to slow, interested. She picked up her step again and Pep let out a slow breath.

“I was going to say, rhythm, but if you want to think that…well, it’s your birthday.” Then Pep caught Luís’ wrist and pushed it down before the other man could prod his ribs again. The movement swung Luís forward and for a moment their faces brushed.

Luís easily shook Pep off, then pivoted so he could put his shoulder against the wall. They were standing in a small niche between two stacks of chairs and his chest and stomach were pushing into Pep’s arm from shoulder to wrist. It was even darker in their corner but they weren’t truly separated from the rest of the room.

“…terrible at flattering,” Luís was saying when Pep grabbed his wrist again. Initially Luís tried to go on, but Pep tugged his arm and he trailed off. He raised his brows at Pep. “You’d like something?”

“I don’t know, do you?” Pep tried. Then he grimaced. No, he wasn’t the best at flattering. He didn’t need to do that anyway and he knew it. “The music’s fine but they just started. They’ll be here a while, won’t they?”

Luís frowned. “It can’t be good if you already want to leave. Listen, you could have just said—”

“I don’t want to leave. I just want to…get some air. For a few minutes.” Pep shifted his weight from foot to foot. He was muttering so low that he could barely hear himself and he felt faintly annoyed that Luís didn’t seem to have any trouble at all hearing him. Understanding him was a different matter, and he was starting to wonder if he had to embarrass himself more than he already was. “Oh, damn it.”

“Oh,” Luís said. He blinked and glanced around, and after a moment Pep realized Luís had no reason to glance around and hadn’t done it because he’d thought he had a reason. Then Luís rolled back his shoulders pointedly and looked towards the back. “That way’s the alley. It’s so early I don’t think anyone’s going to be out for a smoke or a craps game yet.”

Pep looked at the shadowy door, and then he was looking at Luís’ back. For a moment he watched the way the suit-jacket stretched over Luís’ shoulder-blades. He hadn’t had more than a mouthful of beer but he felt oddly light-headed. He swallowed and the back of his throat was dry. Sweat had plastered his collar to the nape of his neck. He headed after Luís.

* * *

The club was built into what should have been a side-street, so the alleys left around it were narrow and irregular. On top of that they were crowded with stacks of crates and other rubbish, so Pep and Luís had their pick of hidden corners where Luís could jam Pep’s hips into sharp edges.

“What?” Luís said as Pep twisted off the boxes. His chin scraped over the top of Pep’s shoulder. He slid his hands up and down Pep’s sides, his fingers tracing light grooves under Pep’s suit-jacket, over Pep’s damp shirt. One of his thumbs hooked up Pep’s suspender and then let it snap back into place, stinging against Pep’s nipple. As he gasped, Luís’ hands closed around the backs of his thighs. “Lean left a little and we can use the wall.”

“The wall? It’s fil—” But Pep’s brand-new suit was already being smudged against it, and he didn’t mind. He opened his mouth to the warm tongue sliding across his lips and dug his hands into Luís’ biceps.

Luís laughed and pushed his mouth onto Pep’s cheek. He smacked a kiss there while pressing Pep into the hard, rough bricks, kneading Pep’s thighs like they were handfuls of dough from the bakery they’d both worked at a few years ago. His mouth latched onto a point under Pep’s jaw and its teeth scraped haphazardly at Pep’s skin as Luís laughed again. “I’ll pay to have it cleaned. Your suit.”

“It’s the first one I ever bought with my own money,” Pep said. His skin was prickling. He breathed short and dragged at Luís’ lapels hard enough to pull the suit-jacket off one shoulder. “And I wore it for you. First time.”

“I thought it was for your interview next week,” Luís muttered against Pep’s neck. At least his breathing was coming quick and uneven too. He twisted his finger around Pep’s right suspender and tugged it down onto Pep’s arm. It pulled that limb tight to Pep’s side till Pep growled and scratched his nails across Luís’ neck, twisting free. Luís flinched, hissed and then crushed his mouth into Pep’s for a dizzying moment. “ _Hey_. I don’t want teasing when I go in tomo—”

This time Pep laughed. He threw his arm around Luís’ neck and hauled himself off the wall, hard against the other man. He could feel the muscles of Luís’ stomach flexing, and then Luís twisted forward, closing both his legs around Pep’s left thigh, and Pep could feel Luís’ prick. “You don’t? Then what the hell are you doing with me?”

Luís reared back. There wasn’t any light in the alley, only the stray glimmer from the lamps out on the street proper, and in the near-dark Luís’ eyes were only glints. “Whatever I want,” Luís told Pep, rolling the words out from deep in his throat.

It was a rough promise, as rough as the way he shoved Pep back into the wall, as fervent as the way he took Pep’s mouth almost before Pep had finished sagging down the bricks. It wasn’t something to cross and it wasn’t something Pep wanted to cross. Not with his hands getting Luís’ shirt-tails up out of his trousers, not with Luís still rumbling low in his chest like a hungry beast. Pep wrapped his other arm around Luís, dropping into the shove.

When they both started, Pep’s foot slid out from under him but Luís’ hands were there to hold him up. The bang of the door only then seemed to reach them, although its sound was already fading.

Pep stiffened and looked at Luís, who had already turned his head to look over his shoulder. Then Luís hissed through his teeth. His hands kneaded against Pep’s ribs, then clenched in Pep’s shirt. He pulled Pep forward and pushed Pep back almost in the same movement. The brick wall kept Pep from moving any farther and he had to shove back at Luís to make the other man understand the problem. Luís glanced again over his shoulder, then dragged them down onto their knees.

By then Pep could hear voices, low laughter. An odd uneven scuffling of feet mixed with heavy breathing and sometimes a strange hitching grunt. The stacks of crates hid him and Luís from view but also kept him from seeing what was going on. He stared at the crates and found a slit that might give him a glimpse, but a hard hand on his shoulder forced him to stay down. He turned his head and Luís shook his head, tight-lipped.

Then Pep heard a blow and a half-stifled but distinctly pained gasp. He felt Luís’ hand pushing down on his shoulder again and realized he’d tried to stand. This time he tried to shake off Luís, but the other man grabbed his arm. Then his knee so he had to keep it bent. Pep was clenching his teeth so hard that he couldn’t whisper to Luís to let him go if the man knew Pep at all.

There was another blow, and then a raucous jeer from a vaguely familiar voice. Luís started to mutter, then sucked in air through his teeth and seized Pep by the ear. He made Pep look at him before he mouthed that there was an empty bottle behind Pep. For a moment Pep didn’t understand. Then he ducked his head, even though the crates provided enough cover. He felt about and his hand closed over smooth glass.

“Throw it down the alley,” Luís hissed. He nodded in the right direction. “Then get a crate. They’re empty, they should be light enough to throw.”

“Godda—” Another blow cut off the rest. Then it was a little quieter, as if the others were standing back, and the sound of coughing and spitting could be heard.

Luís inhaled sharply, and Pep agreed. Now they knew who was being beaten, and…Pep didn’t want to think on that puzzle right now. It wasn’t the time or place for it, and the bottle was heavy in his hand. He rocked back on his heels and Luís bent his head. Then Pep flung it over the other man’s head.

The bottle crashed loudly into something. At their end of the alley came a flurry of startled curses and then a shout for people to find another street if they knew what was good for them. Halfway through the shout Luís stood up. Then he crouched down again. He moved so quickly and fluidly that Pep was staring at the group of men across the alley before he realized why he could do that: Luís had taken the crate that’d been in front of Pep and flung it.

Pep belatedly remembered what else Luís had told him and seized the next crate down, only to have Luís jerk his wrist from it. Then Luís yanked Pep out from behind the boxes into the middle of the alley. They nearly ran into a doubled-over man and he started to rise to look at them. He was wearing a fedora with a jaunty red feather in the band.

Luís kicked the man in the stomach before that feather even got to Pep’s waist. Then he pushed Pep aside, into something that moved and Pep stumbled. He caught himself on what felt like a shoulder, ripped his hand away and skittered back. Then he spun around and Luís had Raúl’s arm over his shoulders, and Raúl was staring at Pep, a bloody streak roughly cleaving his face in half from brow to chin.

“You fucking shits, do you know who you’re—” coughed someone.

Raúl hitched his shoulders. Then he glanced down. His mouth was open wide, he was gasping for air, leaning hard on Luís, but something about him shifted. He lifted his foot in a deliberate, thoughtful way, then stamped it down viciously. His face didn’t change when bone crunched underneath it.

“Virgin Mary’s…” Shaking his head, Luís all but flung Raúl into Pep’s arms. “Come on. This—wait. Wait a moment.

Pep staggered under Raúl’s weight. His hands slipped over Raúl’s back and sides. One caught under Raúl’s left arm and Pep tried to haul the other man to his feet, only to have Raúl slump sharply. Raúl was trying, his fingers clawing roughly at Pep’s clothes, but something kept disabling his legs.

It didn’t help when Luís impatiently shoved at them. Then he was half-running towards the end of the alley without another word; Pep stared after him for a moment.

“Go. _Go_ ,” Raúl suddenly muttered. He shoved at Pep’s arm, then slewed sideways around to Pep’s right and that was when Pep realized Raúl wasn’t trying to make Pep leave. He was trying to make them both follow Luís.

Somebody swore violently at them and Pep started to look, only to have Raúl clumsily ram into his waist. They nearly fell over on each other before Pep could get Raúl’s arm again. He yanked Raúl up, then dragged them after Luís without any more hesitation.

* * *

Even after they were out of hearing range, Luís made them double back through town using backalleys so narrow and isolated that Pep was surprised to see the rats knew where they were. He didn’t seem to care that Raúl was shivering and white-faced, and sometimes muttering as if he couldn’t remember who they were. He didn’t listen to Pep’s protests either, but simply kept moving. Since he knew this part of the city and Pep didn’t, they had to follow him.

Eventually he let them stop on the stoop of someone’s backdoor. Raúl immediately sagged against Pep, his face pressed hard into Pep’s shoulder. His breathing felt clammy and was shallow and uneven.

“Luís,” Pep started harshly.

Luís ignored him and knocked twice on the door, paused, and knocked once more. He stared at the unresponsive wood. Then he jerked his head sharply to the left, cursed under his breath and raised his hand again. He blinked as the door opened.

Pep sighed in relief, then readied himself to try and explain matters. He twisted around to look into the doorway, only to blink himself.

“Rui, I need your kitchen,” Luís said shortly, already pushing inside. He swerved just enough to let Rui Costa glance out at Pep and Raúl. “It’s complicated.”

“I thought you two were out celebrating his…” Rui craned his head to look at the sliver of face Raúl didn’t have in Pep’s shoulder “…González?”

Luís came back out, moving his shoulders and head in little impatient jerks. “Come on, don’t stand out here where everyone can see.”

At that Rui looked sharply at him. Rui started to ask something, then shut his mouth tightly and stepped back. He let Pep take in Raúl, though he closed the door a little slowly. Then he nodded at Luís, who had come back in as well and was pacing agitatedly about the cramped foyer. “What’s going on?”

“I’m sorry,” Raúl muttered. “I didn’t—”

“Oh, you didn’t know we were there. _We_ didn’t know you were there, till after Pep wanted to…damn it. _Damn_ it.” Then Luís slapped the wall. He left his hand on it and stared at it, and then took off down the hall.

Pep opened his mouth, then cursed as Raúl abruptly slumped. He barely caught the man.

“Never mind.” Rui only glanced over before looking again at Luís’ departing back. His eyes had narrowed. Then he shook himself, and when he raised his head, he had a concerned look on his face. He helped take Raúl’s other arm. “This way. I’ll call—”

Raúl suddenly went rigid. Then he was dragging them forward, somehow, shaking his head so hard that he was swaying from foot to foot. “No. No, no, don’t call the—”

“Fernando?” Rui interrupted.

Raúl went silent. He stopped shaking his head and stumbled more gently between them. Then his head dipped a little.

“All right,” Rui said. “Pep, you can use the table. There’s some things under the…oh, Luís has them out already. Then I’ll just get the phone.”

* * *

Rui wiped methodically at his fingers with the bloody towel instead of looking Luís in the eye. He was only a year older than Luís, and one younger than Pep, but sometimes he could disapprove more strongly than any of their fathers. “Well, Morientes will be here in a few more minutes. I suppose you could try to ask him.”

“I don’t think he’ll know what Raúl was doing,” Luís snorted. A few cups of coffee and Pep’s hiss at him to help get Raúl’s clothes off had calmed him down, but only so he could argue cryptically with Rui and ignore everything and everyone else.

Neither of them would give Pep any solid answers as to what they were talking and not-quite-talking about. Or why they weren’t shocked at what had happened so far, but instead almost seemed to take it as expected. That wasn’t the right reaction. Luís knew his way around unsavory parts of town but every morning during the week he went to his clerking job, and on Sundays he was in church. And while Rui was Luís’ friend, Pep had heard plenty of complaints from Luís about how the man was a stickler for order and calm.

“Why not? It’s not like he hasn’t dabbled in it, too. He’s the doorman for Thursday nights at the place over on Eleventh and King’s Street,” Rui said. Then he raised his brows. “You didn’t know?”

“Mori?” Luís stared hard at Rui. “He’s…”

Rui shrugged. “You know how he’s always been the one kicking conmen and bullies out of his building. It got their attention.”

“Whose?” Pep asked.

“Oh, they’re such idiots,” Luís muttered. He closed his eyes and pressed the fingertips of both hands to either side of his nose. Then he massaged them up and down. “Raúl’s smarter than that, at least.”

“He is, but look at his family’s landlord,” Rui said.

Pep exhaled loudly. He thought he saw Luís stiffen, but then Luís addressed Rui and Pep had to press his fist into his hip. He waited a moment longer, then turned on his heel and went back into the kitchen. Behind him Luís’ voice faltered, and then finally Luís called after Pep, but Pep wasn’t ready to talk to him anymore.

There was still coffee left and that was what Pep intended to get, to give him a moment to calm down. But he went into the kitchen and Raúl was sitting up on the table. Pep slowed and went around the far end. Then he shook his head. He started to come up to the other man, but changed his mind and headed to the sink. “Do you want some water?”

“I think they saw who you were,” Raúl said slowly. He made every word sound as if it was encased in lead. “They’re going to come after you, too.”

“Who?” Pep snapped. Then he bit his lip. He put his hands on the edge of the sink and leaned over them. After a deep breath, he pushed himself back and turned around.

Raúl had taken the bandage off his head so the jagged cut on his forehead was visible. It was close enough to his hairline that the scar wouldn’t show when it was healed, but right now its brown, ridged scab stood out hideously against his skin.

Pep dropped his gaze a little, suddenly aware that he was staring, and met Raúl’s apologetic but strangely judging eyes. Then Raúl looked down. He awkwardly twisted the soiled bandage between his fingers. Only two of them weren’t wrapped up themselves. He’d shrugged his shirt back on but hadn’t buttoned it up; even so, the bandages around his chest meant he was nearly as decent as he would have been if he had done up the buttons.

“I was trying to keep them out as much as I could. They said if I gave ten percent, they’d leave me alone, but if I didn’t pay, they’d start leaving my friends’ hands on my doorstep,” Raúl said after a moment. He was still speaking in that slow, heavy voice. His eyes were clear and steady, and too old for him. “But if you pay once, you keep paying. I thought—there had to be a better way to get rid of them. It was only going to be till I could do that.”

The red feather in that man’s hat suddenly flashed into Pep’s mind. It was a popular enough style, but especially with members of a certain gang. And there were rumors about the landlord who owned Raúl’s and Fernando’s buildings, rumors about who he knew and what they could do. But he was a terse, ill-tempered man who took offense to anyone who asked about such things to his face, so Pep had never paid much attention to what was said. “You—what did you do? You crushed that man’s hand.”

Raúl stiffened. His face started to twist, but then he took a breath. He had to make an effort to do it and pain flashed through his eyes. Then he looked down at his hands again. He touched the bandage on his right wrist. “It was the least I could do to him.”

“What?” This was not the retiring boy Pep had known—not even the nineteen-year-old Pep had seen last week at a mutual acquaintance’s party, gawky in an ill-fitting borrowed suit. “What do you mean—”

“If you knew, you’d—but you don’t need to know. You shouldn’t get into…” Raúl squeezed his eyes shut and exhaled roughly. He dropped his head into one hand and mumbled to himself. Then he looked up, suddenly urgent and pleading. “Listen. Pep. You need to…you should leave town for the weekend. It’ll…I think after that, I can…but I don’t want you to get into—into trouble because of me. It’s not your problem.”

One footstep alerted them before Luís came into the kitchen. “I think so too,” he said. He put his hand on Pep’s shoulder. “Rui says he can put you and Mori up for the night while you…anyway, talk to him. When Mori comes. It’s Rui’s house and he has a few things he wants to say.”

At the mention of Morientes, Raúl stiffened again. For a moment he almost looked as if he was going to bolt. But then he heard the rest and a sharp, desperate gleam of hope went through his eyes. He even looked over his shoulder.

“Rui’s…that’s the front door. Probably Mori,” Luís said, head cocked. His eyes stayed on Raúl. “We’re leaving now.”

Raúl nodded distractedly. Then Luís pushed at Pep, who was resisting, and Raúl started. He made as if to get off the table, then hissed and pressed his hand to his side. He still got Luís’ attention. “Thank you,” Raúl said. His eyes were unnervingly intense with gratitude, and they went from Luís to Pep. “Even if—thank you.”

“Well—you’re welcome.” With that Luís forced Pep out into a back hall.

He would have made them keep going back into the street, except Pep managed to get his hand around a doorknob and refused to go further. Luís sighed irritably and Pep’s temper frayed again.

“I’m not leaving. You don’t speak for me, especially when you aren’t speaking to me,” he hissed at Luís. “What is going on? What was—”

“Don’t be so _stupid_. You’re the one who wanted to help before you even saw what it was.” The heat in Luís’ voice was almost more surprising than his actual words. He was rarely so angry with Pep, and never with the edge of disappointment that was in his eyes now.

For a moment Pep was silent. Then he shook off Luís’ hand and pushed the other man away from him. “What did you want us to do? Walk away? You didn’t know either and—”

“I _know_ ,” Luís said sharply. Then he twisted away so his elbow struck the wall.

The hollow sound of it carried down the hall. They both winced and Luís looked up towards the kitchen as a voice there seemed to rise in reply. But the voice continued on, clearly involved in something else, and Luís grimaced as if that had only confirmed his worst fears. He shook his head, then put his hand up to his face and sighed.

“Look,” he started again. He sounded ages more tired. “Pep. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean you—but this isn’t just a neighborhood fight. I’ve got to talk with Rui some more about this, and…and I don’t know.”

“ _What_?”

Luís started, then briefly closed his eyes in annoyance when he realized it was Morientes’ voice, not Pep’s. “Anyway, you should go…”

“Out of town?” Pep said. “This is ridiculous. They were right outside of—anyone could have walked in on it, not just us. It’s like they think they can do anything.”

Another outburst from the kitchen interrupted him. Pep glanced absently towards it, then was about to continue when they heard glass shattering. Morientes was shouting now and Rui was shouting back, and the rage in their voices made Pep take a step back towards the kitchen.

But Luís caught his arm again. Luís was looking hard at him, trying to make Pep understand something without saying a word, but that wasn’t quite there between them now. Another flash of disappointment went through Luís’ eyes before they hardened. His grip on Pep’s arm tightened. “Pep. Listen to me. You have your university classes and you should just worry about them. This is about the neighborhood.”

“You’re not going to report it,” Pep said. He blinked and looked at Luís, and then repeated what he had just said. He shook his head. “Luís. I went to the same school as you and them. I lived here too. And it’s different now.”

Luís’ eyes were opaque, the darkest things in the unlit hall. “I’ll give you a ride back to your place. We can borrow Rui’s car.”

“Luís, you are _not_ —what are you doing? What are you _doing_?” Pep hissed. He jerked away his arm; Luís let it go. But then he seized Luís’ shoulder and the other man looked stunned, and that made the prick of pain in Pep’s chest blossom into a full ache. “What are you doing?”

The opaqueness of Luís’ eyes suddenly cracked. Then he dropped his gaze. He looked at Pep’s hand, then at his own as he slowly lifted it. He let his fingertips graze the back of Pep’s hand before he firmly took it off. “If there’s any point to how we spent my birthday, you’ll at least give me a day. Raúl’s in no shape to head to the police station tomorrow anyway.”

“You’re stalling,” Pep said.

Luís shrugged abruptly. He still wouldn’t look at Pep, and when he went around Pep towards the back door, he kept well clear of Pep’s reach. “I am. Come on.”

Then he walked away, even though Pep tried to reply. Pep shut his mouth and watched Luís for a moment. Another loud exchange in the kitchen made Pep glance over his shoulder, but he quickly turned back. Luís had stopped to wait at the end of the hall. He wasn’t facing Pep but he didn’t need to finger through his keys one by one as he was doing.

After another moment, Pep took a slow step away from the kitchen. He looked over his shoulder towards it as he took a second step. Then he turned about and continued walking. He didn’t look at Luís as the other man opened the door for him.

* * *

By the time they arrived at the apartment Pep had on the edge of the campus, the sky was light grey with false dawn and the milk bottles were already on the stoop. Luís didn’t leave the car, but he stayed idling at the curb till Pep had picked up the milk. Pep carried those in without looking to see the departing car, then went up to his room. He stripped off his clothes except for his undershirt and trousers, then looked at the handfuls of cloth. He could still smell the cigarette smoke on them.

Pep threw them into the corner of his bathroom. Then he grimaced and picked them up again, and carefully folded them into the laundry hamper. He paused again, then swore under his breath.

He took a cold shower next. It didn’t help clear his head but it got off the sweat and the smells, and it was something he didn’t have to think about to do. Then he ate breakfast out of habit; he always showered in the morning before eating. He dressed and nearly left before remembering he didn’t have any early classes. That had him standing near the door for several minutes.

Eventually a noise outside shook Pep from that spot. He went back to the bedroom and glanced at his desk, then sat down at it. His books were open and his pen was lying on his notes. He picked up the pen and twisted it in his fingers, then put it down. He couldn’t even bring himself to take up one of the books.

Pep got up from the desk and went to the window. It was a cheap room with a cheap view of the building next to it, nothing but pitted grimy bricks and half a window with gaudy chintz curtains, but it held Pep’s attention as the dawn slowly brightened into day.

* * *

For all that Pep badly needed something to occupy him, he nearly forgot he had a meeting with his advisor and had to run to make it on time. He arrived gasping so much that the secretary kindly stalled his advisor while he got a drink of water and composed himself. But even after that, he couldn’t focus. Twice in ten minutes his advisor had to repeat a question to him.

As Pep was stammering through his answer to the second, his advisor sighed and held up a hand to stop him. Pep stumbled over another word, then quieted and dropped his eyes to his hands on the table. His fingers were shifting restlessly over and around each other and he knotted them hard together to make them stop. His face felt as hot as if he was standing over a furnace.

“Is something the matter?” his advisor asked. “Oh, didn’t you say it was your friend’s birthday yesterday? Pep, if you wanted to have a late morning to recover, you only had to—”

“No. Yes. It’s—I’m sorry.” Pep watched the tips of his fingers whiten. He twisted his hands harder and felt his knuckles begin to ache. “It’s my friend—my other friend. He had some trouble last night and I’m…I’m still thinking about it. That’s all.”

His advisor nodded sympathetically and picked up a few papers, and Pep thought that that was the end of it. But then the other man asked if he could be of any help. Pep meant to say no, but instead he found himself telling his advisor all about it. Once he started, he couldn’t stop himself till he’d finished the story.

When he was done, he fell quiet. His breath didn’t come any more easily. If anything it seemed to come a little rougher, and the prickling feeling in his chest had more to do with a sudden, strange, defiant anger than with relief. Luís’ warning flashed through Pep’s mind just before he lifted his eyes to his advisor’s face.

The other man was looking at him with narrowed eyes and tightly-compressed lips. A little shock was still fading from the man’s eyes, but it was far overshadowed by the inexplicable irritation in them. “I wish you hadn’t told me that,” he said as Pep straightened in his seat.

“Why?” was all Pep could say.

Then his advisor began lecturing—hectoring—him on how he’d always been a sensible young man with a lot of potential and he should choose his friends better. It was a reprimand Pep had heard directed at Luís several times, from various elders of their acquaintance, but never towards him and never by his advisor. The man was well-respected both by academics and by practicing attorneys, and had a reputation for being willing to take controversial stands in defense of his ideals. He had an uncompromising take on dealing with corruption in the government. It was one of the reasons why Pep had worked so hard to get the man as his advisor.

Pep let the man go on for several minutes before he managed to stammer something about the police, and how they hadn’t gotten involved yet. “That’s the only bright idea you had all night,” his advisor said.

Suddenly Pep found himself on his feet. He watched his hands move through the air, then looked between them to see his shocked advisor stumbling backwards. The floor vibrated under their feet as one of the chairs fell over. Pep hadn’t tried to strike at his advisor, but he was too angry to sit still and to be silent. He couldn’t even hear what he was saying, he was shouting so loudly.

He couldn’t hear his advisor either, but he saw the man’s mouth move, and the hand shaking towards the door. Then his advisor swung out of the way and the door replaced it. The other man was still trying to say something as Pep yanked on the knob and then stormed into the hall.

* * *

Pep kept straight on till he’d walked halfway into the city. Then he got pressed onto a city tram by a passing group of laughing women, all dressed in the same black skirt and white blouse combination, and he realized it was just about the lunch hour. He wasn’t hungry, but he couldn’t see a way around the lunching secretaries so he’d have to wait a few stops. He squeezed himself into a seat near the back and stared out the window.

By chance the tram was running a route into a familiar neighborhood. The secretaries cleared out a stop earlier, which let Pep get off before the battered old church without anyone taking much notice. He went up a few of the steps, then went back down them and around to the back of the church, where it shared an alley with a building that served as a poolroom and an unlicensed club at night. Inside only boys cutting class and the odd old man were bent over the tables, but there were always a few men lounging around the front door, wearing suits far too well-tailored when they never seemed to go to work.

One saw Pep coming and flicked his cigarette butt into the curb, then muttered to the others. They all pricked to attention and Pep paused at the corner. He knew them; they’d all been in elementary school together. But since the schoolyard, they’d never paid too much attention to each other aside from the odd stiff nod on the street.

“Guardiola,” drawled one, tipping his hat. “You’ve got some nerve, showing up in public already.”

Pep opened his mouth, then shut it. He glanced at the street.

“Running? Go ahead, that’s the father and I’ve got a little respect for his holiness,” the same man said. “But you won’t be running for long.”

He nodded at something behind Pep but Pep didn’t look. Instead he stared at the man, whose laugh turned abruptly shrill. “I’m not the one who needs to run,” Pep snapped. “I haven’t done anythi—”

“Goddamn it,” hissed Luís’ voice in Pep’s ear. Then a hard grip closed around Pep’s arm, and Luís was dragging Pep off towards a car pulling up to the curb. Luís spared a moment to glower at the men near the poolroom door; one gestured rudely and the others laughed, and Luís breathed in sharply but saved the breath for shoving Pep into the car. “Pep, goddamn it, have you lost all your senses?”

“No, I just don’t understand what’s happening, and that’s not my fault, that’s because no one is—” Pep wrenched himself out of Luís’ grip, but he was already in the car and Luís was between him and the door. He did try to push himself over Luís, but the other man jerked the door shut just as Pep put out his hand. He grabbed the strap over the door and through the window he glimpsed the old priest talking to the men by the poolroom. They were all smiling and a snarl twisted unexpectedly from Pep.

Then he gasped as Luís heaved him back. At the same time the car started and swerved. Pep slid half off the seat, half into the door behind him. Something hard hit him in the spine and the left kidney and he slumped hard, white lights dancing before his eyes. The car swerved again and Pep felt himself start to slip off the seat.

A hand on his arm dragged him back. Then it cupped his face and moved his head roughly, and when he didn’t respond, it patted at his cheek. Pep shoved it away and blinked hard. His vision cleared in time for him to see wariness override the hurt and exasperation in Luís’ expression.

“You all right?” Luís asked after a moment. He moved his hand down as if to touch Pep’s chest, then withdrew it. Then he glanced towards the front of the car. “Take it easy on the springs, would you? It’s not your car.”

“Go to hell. You and that fat priest and those bastards at the corner.” Fernando’s profile briefly showed around the headrest. Then he turned around and drove the car roughly through an intersection, to the accompaniment of outraged horns. “You said he’d be on our side. He’s just as deep in them as—”

Luís pursed his lips a few times, hard enough to make them whiten. Then he got his arm over the back of the seat and pulled himself up into a sitting position. “Mori, he could’ve kept us for them. He said he’d ask around and see for us how bad it—”

“I already know how bad it is!” Fernando said. His voice rose sharply to a near-shout at the end. “I talked with the doctor, I _paid_ him for it. For putting Raúl’s—”

“How is he?” Pep asked.

Fernando let out an odd stutter, then glanced in the rearview mirror. He seemed surprised to see Pep. But then he jerked his head out of view of the mirror, disgusted.

“He’s still at Rui’s place.” Luís gazed at Pep, trying to calculate something. “He’s all right.”

The car swerved slightly. It threw Pep into Luís and for a moment Luís’ breath was on his cheek, Luís’ hand on his shoulder. The other man held Pep, and then held Pep up while Pep straightened himself.

“He’s as all right as he can be,” Luís corrected. “His brain’s working, anyway. We’re going to need it. Listen, Mori, you need to take a—”

“It’s a left!” Fernando snapped back.

Luís tightened his lips. His nostrils flared sharply, then slowly closed in again. He shook his head and slumped irritably into the seat. “We need to drop off Pep first. Then we can go.”

“Go where?” Pep asked after a moment.

At the moment Luís wasn’t looking at him, but at the front. They went past a grimy concrete wall that made Luís’ profile as sharp as a razor, hard and gold and beautiful. Then Luís looked at him. The man’s eyes went over first, and then he turned his head; he didn’t flinch when Pep did.

“I’m—I’m sorry.” The words were hard to push out of Pep’s mouth. He glanced down at the seat between them and was a little surprised to see their knees were touching. “If I’m not acting—very smart. But I just want to—”

“Raúl’s in deep with the _curva_ and they’re going to try to kill him, and they’re going to kill anyone who gets in between him and them,” Luís said abruptly, looking away again. His hand rose and laid fingertips against the window. When the car took another turn, his fingers dragged down the glass and left smudges in their wake. “I’m not going to let that happen.”

The car suddenly lurched to a stop. But momentum kept Pep swinging forward so he fell on Luís again. He’d put up his hands but only managed to press them against the other man’s chest as they looked at each other. Luís meant it.

“You’d better not, or I’ll kill you too. I’ll take care of any goddamn bastard who tries,” Fernando said. He twisted around a moment after Pep had pushed himself off Luís. “It’s your stop, Guardiola.”

Pep wanted to say something, but his mouth was a little dry. He licked his lips and shifted on the seat, and up front Fernando sighed impatiently. Both Pep and Luís glanced at him, and when Pep looked back he saw that the expression on Luís’ face was the same as he felt about that. He tried to speak again, then exhaled slowly.

He got out of the car. Before he even had both feet down, Fernando had revved the engine. Pep leaped back, then twisted around in time to see the car speed off with the side-door still open. But Luís’ arm was out and he had hold of the handle, and he’d wrenched the door shut before the car made the first turn. Then they were gone.

Pep took a step in that direction and nearly went off the curb. He cursed and scrambled back, and a passing car rolled down its window to shout at him to watch it. Something vicious welled up in him and for a moment he wanted to _hurt_ them.

It passed. And then he was tired and confused, and he didn’t know what to do. He started to think _I’ll call Lu—_ , then twisted on his heel, swearing again. He shook his head hard and looked around, and then he headed back to his rooms.

* * *

A message was waiting for him at the front desk. Pep turned over the envelope in his hand while idly responding to the doorman’s chatter, then escaped up the stairs as soon as he could. His stomach growled on the way and he put his hand to it, and could feel his belly flex as if he had some living thing inside of him. It hurt in a dull, nagging way and he decided he needed to eat something.

He left the envelope on a table in the living room while he scraped together a limp sandwich from some leftovers. It’d come too quick for it to be from Luís, and he had to sternly tell himself that neither Raúl nor Rui would send him a letter. They’d call.

The sandwich tasted awful but it settled Pep’s appetite. He washed the dishes and put them away, and then went into the bathroom for some reason that he forgot as soon as he saw his soiled suit in the laundry hamper. He went straight back out and nearly to the door before he remembered that he didn’t have anyone who he particularly cared to talk to, and who would talk to him. Then Pep remembered the letter.

He slit it open with his thumbnail and pulled out the single sheet inside. University stationery, a familiar header. Hand-written: normally his advisor had his secretary type everything, even last-minute notes to ask Pep if he was free for a lunch with some visiting colleague. It apologized for his advisor’s earlier reaction, put it down to shock and asked Pep to come see him again, as soon as possible, so they could discuss things rationally.

Pep knew he should feel relieved, but instead he kept reading the short message over and over, as if he was searching for something else. He _was_ , but he didn’t know why he’d expect to find it in the letter. Finally he tossed the letter away from him.

Purely by chance, it floated into a wastebasket. He went over and looked at it, and after a long moment he pulled it out and put it on his desk. He was still angry but that wasn’t the explanation.

The problem was that he didn’t want to go to this meeting, even though he knew he should—he _had_ to, if he wanted to continue with his studies. He wanted to go after Luís and make the other man—but that wasn’t what was making him so reluctant about meeting his advisor. He…

…he turned around and picked up his phone before he could think any longer about it. When his advisor’s secretary answered, Pep stammered for a few moments before he managed to control himself. He told her that he would be in his apartment for the rest of the day and his advisor could call any time to figure out a time. Then he hung up.

He leaned on the phone for a good minute before picking it up again. This time he dialed Rui Costa’s number.

* * *

The voice that answered was soft and raspy, and its Spanish didn’t have the slight roughness of a Portuguese accent. Pep still needed a moment to place it. “Raúl?”

It was another moment before the answer came. *Josep?*

“You’re fine, then,” Pep said. Then he grimaced. He looked absently around the room and settled his shoulder against the wall. “For answering the phone, I…never mind. Where’s…”

*Luís left in the morning and he hasn’t been back since. He didn’t say where he was going—to me, but I think Rui…but he’s not here either,* Raúl replied. His voice was less hesitant and more relaxed. It still had a strain to it, but it sounded more like him. That was when Pep realized the other man had been trying to disguise his voice. *I don’t know when he’ll be back.*

“Oh.” For a moment Pep couldn’t remember why he’d called. Then he did, but almost at the same time he thought of something else. He breathed through his mouth, trying to figure out what to think about first, and then shook his head. “Wait, so you’re by yourself? I thought—with what might happen—is that a wise idea?”

Raúl made an odd noise that was half-covered by the quick breath he took after it. He could have been snorting or hissing in pain. He did sound irritated when he spoke. *It’s all right, Pep. You don’t have to worry about me.*

“But I d—it’s not about whether I have to or not. You’re my friend. I’m worried because I want…” Pep dropped his head into one hand and pressed the tips of his forefinger and thumb in on either side of his nose. His mind still wasn’t settled and he hated that feeling. It made him dizzy and kept him from acting when he knew he should, and it simply wasn’t the way he wanted to be. He pushed his fingers harder into his face. “You know, I’ll come over. I don’t have anything to do and I can sit with you till one of them comes back.”

For a long while Raúl didn’t reply. The silence went on to the point that Pep tapped the receiver to see if the line was still connected and was rewarded with a faint hiss from Raúl.

*I don’t know if that’s a good idea,* Raúl finally said.

Pep bit his lip, then pulled it out of his teeth as he dragged his hand down his face. The room slowly came into view, blurry and then crisp. He saw that one of the pictures on the far wall was crooked and took a step towards it. Then he spun on his heel and hit his hand against the wall. Over the line he heard Raúl’s gasp and irrationally it made him angrier. He couldn’t even speak till he’d forced one breath out and taken another.

“I’m not a fool or a child, so don’t treat me like one,” Pep snapped. “And I’ll be over in fifteen minutes.”

*It’s—it’s longer than that by—* Raúl stammered.

Not if Pep drove instead of taking the tram as he usually did. He should have told Raúl that, but he didn’t. He hung up the phone so roughly that it clattered half off its hooks and struck his hand. A burst of irritation made him hit it away and it fell off the hooks on the opposite side. Instead of righting it, Pep went to get his coat.

* * *

Pep didn’t own a car. He had a bicycle that served him well enough around campus and in the nearby neighborhoods, and for longer trips the city transportation was usually sufficient. When it wasn’t, Luís would pick him up. But Luís wasn’t the only friend of Pep’s who had a car, and currently Pep wasn’t certain if he’d ask the man, even if he had been able to reach him. Luís…what he’d done, what he’d _said_ …it stuck in Pep’s mind like the playing of a scratched record, always jumping back before things properly resolved. He drove the whole way to Rui Costa’s house with his teeth gritted.

In fact, he was so deep in his frustration that he missed the last turn and went past the house. Then he turned without thinking when he realized what he’d done, too impatient to fix it, and ended up a street down. But there was an open spot at the curb and Pep pulled quickly into it. He wasn’t so impatient about that so much as wanting to get out of the car before he did anything else without thinking.

The neighborhood wasn’t one Pep knew well and he had a little trouble remembering which house was Rui’s. He had to stop on the sidewalk and try to recall from his hasty departure the night before, when he’d been more interested in why Luís had turned into such a—a damned secretive bastard. Women were hanging out on the balconies of the buildings around him, chatting loudly and looking at him, and here and there a passersby seemed to give him a closer look than necessary. It made the point between Pep’s shoulderblades itch. He rolled his shoulders hard and forced himself to go up to one of the doors. If he was wrong, he only had to try again.

He wasn’t wrong. He’d barely knocked before the door jerked open perhaps a hand’s span. Then it stopped. Pep couldn’t see any good reason for it to stop and put out his hand to push at the door, but it moved away before he could touch it. He pulled in his hand and saw Raúl’s wide eyes, and then he was yanked over the threshold.

The door’s slam nearly drowned out Raúl’s pained gasp. The other man was nearly doubled over, his arms tucked in tightly to his sides, the top of his head pointed slightly to Pep’s right. One seemed to be bent over his chest, but when Pep reached for Raúl’s shoulder, that arm suddenly had its hand on his wrist. It was a hard grip and Pep reflexively jerked back, then grimaced and grabbed Raúl by the arms to keep him from finishing his fall.

Raúl sagged into Pep, then abruptly straightened. He was still in pain but more than that was behind his narrowed eyes. “That _was_ quick. How did you get here? Did you—never mind, you can tell me on the way. I left a note and—”

“We’re not—we don’t have to go. I borrowed a car and parked it a block over,” Pep said. He lifted one hand from Raúl and noted how the man sagged, and put it back. Then he tried to twist them around so he could see down the hall. He didn’t remember where the kitchen was. “Look, you should be lying down.”

“I should be not having to worry about you too!” Then Raúl slipped free of Pep, only to stumble into the wall. He hit it with his shoulder but breathed as if the blow had been to his chest. His eyes squeezed shut and stayed that way for a few seconds. They didn’t open till he shook his head, and then they fixed an accusing, regretful look on Pep. “Josep. Listen. I—I appreciate that—but—”

Pep pressed his lips together and began to stand back. Then he grimaced again and jerked his hand nearly to his temple before putting it down just as abruptly. He pivoted and got behind Raúl, then worked his arm around the other man when he turned to see what Pep was doing. For a moment Raúl teetered, off-balance, and Pep took that moment to tilt Raúl in the direction of the doorway at the end of the hall.

Raúl stumbled backwards. His hand came down on Pep’s shoulder, then tried to withdraw as he shifted his protests. It only managed to twist into Pep’s shirt as Pep ignored the other man and continued pushing them down the hall. There he paused to find the switch for the light and Raúl almost threw himself away from Pep. The forcefulness of it was surprising, but Pep was already reacting. He flung his other arm around Raúl and hauled him back.

Upright was all Pep meant to do to Raúl, but he made Raúl wince and loosened his grip, only to have to catch the man roughly as he tipped over. This time he pulled Raúl flush into him, so when Raúl brought up his head, their noses scraped past each other. Pep hadn’t had a chance to flip the switch so they were still in the dark, the whites of Raúl’s eyes barely lighter than the skin and hair around them.

Raúl blinked. Then he dropped his eyes. He took a careful, testing breath; Pep’s arm was pushed into some kind of wrapping around Raúl’s body. He moved his hand to Pep’s shoulder with its fingers curled under, ready to shove forward. “Pep. You don’t have to.”

“That’s why I should,” Pep said without thinking. He straightened a little. It nudged Raúl back on his heels and made him sink slightly against Pep. “It’s why I should.”

“Why?” Raúl asked, looking up again.

Instead of answering, Pep helped the other man back onto his feet. Their gazes brushed across each other again and Pep looked away, but could feel Raúl’s stare staying on him. He searched for the switch, found it and flipped it, and then blinked rapidly against the sudden light.

They were standing in the doorway to the kitchen. On the table was a half-eaten lunch and there were several mugs scattered over the counter to Pep’s left. When he looked closer, he found that they were filled to varying degrees with coffee. He turned around and saw Raúl’s gesturing hand, and went over to the stove. The burners there had both a pot of warming coffee and a kettle, which was empty. Pep filled it and set it to boil, and then remembered he wasn’t in his own place. Somehow he didn’t see Rui Costa as a tea-drinker.

He took the kettle off the stove and put it aside, and picked up the coffee-pot and an empty mug. Then he turned around and found that Raúl had seated himself at the table. The other man was watching him, frowning but slightly detached. He was so much older than Pep remembered.

But still young enough to look lost in a borrowed shirt, nervously pushing its over-long sleeves back over his hands as Pep came to the table. Raúl watched himself fiddle with the cuffs as he spoke, voice unevenly-paced. Mostly too fast at points. “What are you thinking? Because I don’t know what Luís told you, but it’s…it’s serious. And I know you’re studying to be a lawyer, and you should take that chance. You’ve earned it. What I did, I did with my eyes open.”

“Whatever it was, it wasn’t bad enough to deserve what they want to do to you,” Pep said after a moment. He nearly looked away but didn’t, and so didn’t miss the surprised, unsure way Raúl looked up at him. “I know you. Whatever you did—”

“It wasn’t legal,” Raúl said. His brows rose even as his voice grew harsher. He was bleak and amused and scolding all at once.

Pep opened his mouth and a short bark of laughter emerged. He shut his mouth and they were both quiet for a moment. Then Pep shifted forward. He set the mug on the table, filled it with coffee and then put the pot next to it. Then he sat back. “I didn’t think so. Not after the way Luís made us come here last night.”

“Pep, you’re going to be…you’ve always said, your beliefs.” Raúl paused. He chewed at his lip. “Aren’t they a problem?”

“I—” Pep started. He stopped when he realized he didn’t know what he might say next.

Raúl looked levelly at him for a little while. Then, in a toneless soft voice, the other man began to tell Pep what he’d been doing over the past few months. The first deal, the ones afterward. A nerve-wracking night journey up north with a shotgun in his lap and packets of cash hidden under the footboard of the car. Cash later found to be counterfeit and known to be so to the government, a double-cross catching him in the middle with no idea what to do about it. At that point Raúl’s voice cracked a little and he took a shaky breath. He started to go on, cut himself off and then looked at Pep with suddenly frightened eyes. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “I don’t know what they’re going to do. They’ve said before, if I…what they said they could do…”

He lifted his hand, then let it fall. By then Pep had already gotten out of his seat. He stooped for the hand, but Raúl moved quicker. His head was pressing against Pep’s belly before Pep could bend further, and as Pep raised his hands, Raúl’s arms went around his waist. Pep looked down at the tangled waves pushing against his white shirt. Then he looked at his hands to either side, open-fingered and framing the way Raúl shuddered when he breathed. He slowly lowered them to just above Raúl’s shoulders, breathed slow, and then put them down.

Raúl moved his head against Pep, almost nuzzling Pep’s stomach. His breath warmly soaked through Pep’s shirt just above the belly-button.

“When did you get here?”

Pep jerked up his hands. He almost stepped back as well, but barely remembered he’d pull Raúl off the chair if he did. The other man was slower, even though he’d stiffened before Luís had finished speaking. He unwound his arms from Pep’s waist but kept his hands sliding across Pep’s hips till he was able to lean back. Then he took them off.

Luís blinked before Pep could read what had initially been in his eyes. After that, Luís only showed a tired sort of questioning. He had Morientes with him and the other man’s naked surprise lasted more than long enough for Pep to see it.

“Only a few…” Pep stepped forward, then back. Then he stopped as he felt something touch the small of his back. He looked behind him and Raúl’s embarrassed gaze briefly touched his face. Without thinking he’d shifted between the other man and the two in the doorway.

Then Raúl got up. His hand curved over Pep’s hip for support, then withdrew as he gingerly made his way out from behind Pep. “So what did he say?” Raúl asked Morientes.

Morientes was still staring at Pep with an expression of lingering confusion. He didn’t seem to understand the situation the way a child didn’t quite see how one event could cause another. But at Raúl’s voice he started, then turned towards the man. His whole body shifted, the angle of his shoulders and the lift of his chin and the color of his eyes. He threw himself into a first swinging, belligerent step and then promptly reined himself back for the second step. “Nothing useful,” he snorted. He put up his hands and gently balanced them on Raúl’s shoulders. “It was a waste of time. The father’s not going to help at all—I know, I know, he said he’d ask, but by the time he comes back with an answer, we’ll already be dead.”

That second part had been addressed to Luís, who merely lifted his brows. He didn’t look bothered at all by the degree of accusation Morientes put into his words.

After a pause, Morientes turned back to Raúl. He jerked back his shoulders but bent his head down. “Listen, I was thinking on the way over and…”

“Pep, can I see you in the hall?” Luís asked casually.

Morientes was already well into his explanation, which was something about the speakeasy where he worked and the shift change and windows of opportunity. It sounded like he’d rehearsed a bit, but maybe only in his head.

Luís cleared his throat and Pep realized he’d been watching Morientes and Raúl. Neither of those two had paid any attention to him or Luís since Morientes had begun talking. Raúl had his eyes fixed on Morientes, though the frown on his face said he wasn’t too enamored of Morientes’ suggestions so far. Occasionally he’d begin a question and Morientes’ voice would rise another notch.

“Yes,” Pep said. He made his way around the pair and went to join Luís in the hall.

* * *

“I had to come. I couldn’t _not_ have. I helped him in the first place, and I can’t stand by and see that go to waste.” Pep breathed. He needed more air than he’d expected and had to put his hand on the wall to steady himself. “Even if I wasn’t his friend, which I am.”

The kitchen light was bright and yellow and spilled into the half of the hall where Luís wasn’t. Sharp black shadows cut up the angles of his face into jagged triangles. The round of his one visible eye looked as fragile as a soap bubble perched on a needle. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing?” he asked.

“No, but only because I don’t know enough,” Pep answered hotly.

But Luís took Pep’s words with as much equanimity as he’d taken Morientes’ jibe. He stood there and gazed out of the dark at Pep till Pep felt his face flush. And like a phantom pain, a strange warmth spread over Pep’s belly where Raúl’s head had laid.

Pep pressed two fingers against his temple, then shook his head. He didn’t brush at his stomach. “I—anyway, Raúl finally told me everything.” 

“All right.” Luís said it as if he was saying farewell.

“Why are you acting like this?” Pep snapped. He was a little loud; Luís winced and almost looked back into the kitchen. But Pep didn’t care about that anymore. Whatever Raúl and Morientes thought was what they could think. What mattered was what was the result. “It was only last night. But now you’re…it’s as if you’ve only just met me, like you don’t _trust_ me…”

Luís winced again. That composure of his finally slipped. “It’s not that. I do—it’s because I do that I don’t…well, want you to be part of this. Look, I can take care of it with Rui. You don’t have to worry about Raúl.”

For a moment Pep wanted to hit him. It was a sudden, clawing impulse that took nearly everything he had to suppress. He curled his fingers into the wall so the paper began to come up under his nails. “It’s not only him. You don’t think I don’t understand what you mean when you say things like that? You don’t think I understand now what you’ve been doing, too?”

“Well, you never seemed to notice before,” Luís abruptly said. Then he looked as if he wanted to call back his words, but only for a moment. After that his eyes hardened. “You’ve never asked. You’ve never even acted like you thought there was a question, and I didn’t—I didn’t try that hard to keep it from you.”

“No. No. You didn’t try at all. You’re not very far into it,” Pep said more slowly. The paper under his nails was beginning to hurt, so he took his hand off the wall. He looked at it, then picked out a scrap from his fourth finger. Then he took a deep breath and looked back up at Luís. “Not even as far as Morientes. You’re…you just see a few things, know where to go.”

Luís’ jaw tightened. His eyes flicked down and up, and then he deliberately unclenched his jaw. He arched a brow but his voice was a little uneven. “You’re a sarcastic man when you’re disappointed, Pep.”

The hurt of those words went surprisingly deep. For a moment Pep couldn’t respond. Then he sighed and ran his hand over the top of his head. “I’m not disappointed.”

“What, with your law studies and—”

“Don’t act like I’m a stranger to you,” Pep said. Suddenly he was tired. He knew he should explain himself better but he couldn’t quite find the energy for it. He could only look at the other man.

After a moment, Luís drew in a sharp breath. He started to speak, awkwardly stopped himself and looked away, into the kitchen. His eyes never focused till he looked back at Pep a few seconds later. Then it was like he was seeing Pep for the first time, in a way that made Pep breathe a little easier.

“Well, that’s how it is for you, isn’t it?” Pep asked after another moment.

Luís’ eyes narrowed. He wasn’t upset again, but he wasn’t certain either. “Yes. But—”

“Is Rui any more…” Pep made a circling motion with his hand.

Luís moved his head to the left, then stopped. His eyes briefly went to the ceiling as he considered the question. “What are you thinking?”

“He’s not,” Pep muttered, pulling at one shoulder. A noise in the kitchen made him start, but he refused to look behind himself. He kept massaging his shoulder. “So Raúl probably has the most experience, and he’s the youngest. Well. Never mind it, we can’t do anything about that.”

“Pep, I think I’m taking you home,” Luís suddenly declared, with more forcefulness than his confused words deserved. His actions were a little more consistent: he put out his hand and then jerked it back before Pep had more than noted the movement. “Did you sleep at all last night? Eat? You never eat when you’re—”

Pep snorted. “I’m not the one whose health is in danger.”

“Raúl’s problem isn’t starvation, so I wouldn’t use him as a comparison,” Luís said tartly.

It was such a familiar kind of exchange, but it somehow felt inappropriate, like they were trying on clothes that fit but that didn’t belong to them. And Luís felt it too, with the way he half-cleared his throat. He moved his head uneasily, then raised his hand again.

Pep opened his mouth to object, then paused as a thought occurred to him. He asked what time it was.

“Nearly four,” Luís said.

“He should’ve been back from lunch at half-past one,” Pep said under his breath, looking blankly forward.

It took him a moment to hear Luís’ puzzled query. He shrugged it off and reluctantly mentioned how he’d gotten over; Luís seemed strangely relieved and merely replied that he could drop off Pep and then the car. He lifted his hand again, palm up. His eyes stayed on Pep.

After a long pause, Pep slowly took the car keys out of his pocket. He dropped them into Luís’ hand. Luís’ fingers twitched, then closed around them. The other man sighed, and gestured for Pep to go ahead of him. Pep did.

* * *

It wasn’t a very eventful drive. Pep didn’t try to start a conversation. Luís only asked a few questions, spaced far apart. How Pep had known to come over. If Pep knew someone whose phone he could borrow if he wanted to call Rui again. If Pep wanted to say anything else.

“Wait a moment,” Pep said as they pulled up to his building. It was a lovely place, with the willow shading the east side and the light pouring over the roof tiles. Then Pep reached across the car and put his hand on Luís’ arm. He turned to look the other man in the eye. “Come up with me.”

“Why…” Then Luís shut his mouth. He put down the parking brake, then took the key out of the ignition. He looked at Pep again, then nodded slightly.

Pep let go of his arm and got out of the car. Luís was only a moment behind, and then rounded the car’s front end so he went before Pep into the building. The reception desk was unattended. Sometimes the doorman went out to get a coffee from one of the nearby cafés or to buy a pack of smokes, so that wasn’t usual.

They went up the stairs, with Luís still leading. But he had to stop at Pep’s door. He frowned when Pep handed him the keys, looking at Pep rather than at them. It almost took Pep telling him for Luís to use them.

The door swung partly open, then stopped. Pep wasn’t standing where he could see through the slit that was formed, but Luís was and he sucked in his breath sharply. Then he took a backwards step. He lifted his hand so if Pep had held still, it would have hooked Pep’s arm and drawn him back with Luís.

But Pep went forward. “I said I’d be here but I wasn’t, so I don’t think they would have waited for me,” he said, pushing the door fully open. He had to put his shoulder to it to do that.

Luís came back up to join him in the doorway. Together they looked at the shambles. Then Pep felt Luís’ gaze on the side of his face. He ignored it, and then ignored the sharply-drawn breath as he moved into the room. His foot touched an overturned drawer and he glanced down, then again when he recognized the papers spilling out underneath the drawer. Pep bent down and sifted through them with one hand.

“Pep, I’m…”

It only took a moment for Pep to find his checkbook. He put it in his pocket and then looked around, still squatting on the floor. Across the room was a heap of clothes that spilled around the doorway to the bedroom; he headed there next and picked out a few clean sets, bundling them under his arm. Then he had a thought and came back into the room to find a bag for them.

He happened to look up and see Luís’ face and it stopped him for a moment. Then Pep looked away. He found a cloth bag, stuffed his clothes into it and then prodded through the mess till he turned up his spare keys. There was the bit of cash stuck in the back of the fridge—no, if it was still there, it could wait. They hadn’t broken the lock on the door, after all. He came back to the front of the room and tapped Luís on the arm. The other man was already staring at him, agonized and wondering.

“All right,” Pep said.

Luís was silent. He dropped his gaze to his hands, which he’d twisted together. He nearly twisted his fingers out of their sockets, then abruptly untwisted them and threw up his head. “Wait. What’s going on?”

“Outside.” Pep tried to step around the other man.

“No.” And Luís shoved his arm in front of Pep.

After a moment, Pep pushed forward. That arm pushed back. Pep put one hand down to get it out of the way and Luís grabbed him by the shoulders. He yanked Pep back a step, stared into Pep’s eyes, and then shoved Pep into the wall. The bag of clothes cushioned some of the impact, but then that fell to the floor somewhere as Pep pushed back. Luís let him, then slammed him harder into the wall. It hurt and Pep kicked out blindly, and he hit something; Luís hissed and dropped a bit, but his grip on Pep didn’t loosen. Then he was pinning Pep to the wall with his weight, his breath seething hot in Pep’s face.

“You knew this was going to happen. You knew and you didn’t _call_ —”

“How am I supposed to call you if I don’t know where you are?” Pep snapped. He jerked at his arms, then smacked his head to the side. But he missed Luís, who pulled back just in time, and was left to slump back to catch his breath. He didn’t bother. “And I didn’t—I didn’t know. I just—I thought maybe—and I didn’t want this to happen, I didn’t want to believe it but it’s even my advisor and—”

The look in Luís’ eyes shifted from furious to shocked to furious again, but he had turned his head so he wasn’t showing that second anger to Pep. He rippled his fingers up and down Pep’s arms, still pressing but not so roughly.

“I talked to him about it. About last night. I’m sorry. But he saw I was upset, he asked if he could help, and I just…” Pep breathed.

“No. No, it’s all right. You’re not the goddamned bastard here,” Luís muttered after a moment. Then his head dipped and he closed his eyes as if he hurt. “I didn’t want this, Pep. I’m sorry.”

“You’re not the bastard either.” When the other man looked at him, Pep somehow managed a smile that he meant. He moved his right hand to Luís’ hip. “As much as you try.”

Luís cocked his head. Then he shook it hard. He let go of Pep’s left arm to push at his temple. “Pep. All right. Listen, this is what—”

“But I never told him your names. He doesn’t even know you—it wasn’t that I was ever ashamed of you. I just wanted to wait till I could introduce you in person, but you would never stay around long enough,” Pep said. He was still a little short of breath and had to hurry the last part, and it made him sound uncertain. He grimaced and made sure he had enough air before he continued. “Anyway, we have time. He thought I’d be here, I’m not, and he doesn’t know where I would be. We don’t usually talk about that sort of thing. So we can go back to Rui Costa’s. I need to talk to Raúl again, and you need to keep Morientes from doing something stupid.”

At first Luís tried to say something about how he didn’t take offense, but he let his voice trail off as Pep talked over him. His lips gradually sealed together; he listened with hard eyes. His hands still occasionally ran up and down Pep’s arms, but then they dropped deliberately to Pep’s elbows and stayed there. “Pep.”

“I don’t know everything that’s going on yet, but I’m going to know. I have to know. If we’re going—and I’m not letting you go alone.” Pep brought up both hands and put them on Luís’ arms. He watched the gesture break Luís’ train of thought. “I don’t give a damn what you think I should do. I do know what I’m doing, and I’m not letting you go. You or Raúl, or Morientes or even Rui Costa, if it comes to that.”

“You don’t have to do it because you’re friends with us,” Luís tried. The conviction was already dying from his voice and he knew it. He hitched up his shoulders and pushed his face towards Pep as if that would revive it. “You don’t have to.”

“I don’t have to but I want to. And it’s not about being friends with you—we’re not _friends_ ,” Pep said, squeezing hard. A moment later he realized he was squeezing Luís’ arms, but he didn’t loosen his grip. He held on and looked Luís in the eye. “Not now.”

A little confusion went across Luís’ face, but no surprise and no hurt. And then he understood consciously as well. His eyes warmed and he changed the way he was holding Pep’s elbows, somehow making it more about holding than restraining. He took a deep but sharp breath. “You do give a damn. About what I think.”

“Luís, for God’s sake, we can’t waste ti—Luís.” It was never going to put off the other man and Pep didn’t even know why he’d started to try it. He shook his head. “You’re not going to make me change my mind. I’m not letting this go. I’m not letting you go, any of you.”

“No, I never do.” Suddenly Luís dropped Pep’s arms. He stepped back and it was strangely cold without him. Then he looked up again and the cold disappeared. He was standing easily again, carrying himself without an effort, as he usually did. “I wasn’t going to drop you just to take care of it, you know.”

Pep started to hear a laugh come from his mouth. Then he relaxed into it and let it die a natural death, stooping to retrieve his clothes. “You were and now you’re glad I didn’t let you. Now come on.”

He stood and Luís pulled him into a hard, raw kiss. Their teeth clacked but Luís simply pressed their lips over it till it wasn’t teeth or lips or anything that felt like a single sensation. It was one whole and when it ended, Pep was clinging to Luís by his fingertips. He gasped and tried to straighten up, but stumbled and had to dig his nails into Luís to keep upright. He’d dropped the bag of clothes again.

“You can’t change your mind about this,” Luís said. He ended awkwardly, as if he’d meant to say more. His stare didn’t waiver.

“Well, you can’t lie to me anymore.” Pep retrieved his clothes a third time while keeping one hand on Luís’ wrist. When he felt that pulling away, he tightened his grip. “Or tell me—”

Luís turned his hand under Pep’s arm and helped Pep to stand, then had Pep look at him. “I’m not going to do that again. If you’re coming with me, then you’re coming. There’s no halfway for that.”

Neither of them had anything to add to that, so for a moment they didn’t speak. Then Luís moved his head towards the door. Pep started, then looked that way as well. He jammed his bag under his arm and thought a moment, then nodded and started out of the room with Luís following.

* * *

“Rui’s cautious, but he’s not a coward or a fool. He just wants to know that we’ve thought of everything important,” Luís said. He paused to tap at the door with his elbow, then twisted the knob and pushed it open for Pep. “And he has a point.”

“He does, but I don’t think…” Pep abruptly dropped his voice upon seeing the bed.

The light in the bathroom was still on and it threw a square of bright yellow across the mattress that framed the two torsos on it, with the arm of one wrapped tightly around the other. The body on the right was curled over more because it was bigger—that was Morientes. Pep’s eyes began to adjust so he could make out Morientes’ foot hanging over the bed, the other leg drawn up like a wall carefully circumventing Raúl’s knees. The dark head buried in Raúl’s chest, and above it, Raúl’s slightly-open eyes.

Pep half-turned and found a table near him. He set down the tray of food there while Luís came into the room and quietly shut the door. Then Luís bent over the tray and took a bit of the bread, shrugging off Pep’s look. He ate it and let Pep make his way over to the bed.

There was a little room left near Raúl’s head, which Raúl was trying to lift. Pep gestured for the man to stop and gingerly fit himself into the available space. Raúl slowly put his head back and Pep had to stop because Raúl’s hair was already brushing his thigh. Now Raúl’s eyes were fully open and they were fixed on Pep. They briefly flickered to the side when Luís moved, but never truly shifted away. Morientes didn’t stir.

After a while, Pep moved his hand over the pillow so his fingertips just touched one of Raúl’s messy curls. Raúl blinked, then turned his head so it was lying half on Pep’s hand, half against Pep’s leg. He closed his eyes. “So you think…”

Pep raised his head, then frowned when he saw no one on the opposite side of the bed. Then he turned around and nearly sighed to see Luís standing by his elbow. He started to move before he remembered there was no more space.

“Stay,” Luís said. His voice inflected oddly and he turned away to finish pulling up the chair. But once he’d seated himself, he looked Pep dead in the eye.

“I do. I think it’ll be fine, but we’ll talk about that when you’re awake,” Pep told Raúl. He was still watching Luís, who was taking in Raúl’s head on Pep’s leg with the shadows hiding his face. “You and Fernando. I…there are things he needs to do. With us.”

Raúl nodded without opening his eyes. His breath was already slowing. Behind him Morientes shifted to tuck more securely into Raúl and Raúl moved to accommodate it, pushing his forehead more into Pep’s thigh. Luís grinned at that, then leaned over to tousle Raúl’s hair: his fingers tangled with Pep’s with the thick silky strands swirling around them both. “When you wake up. We’re fine for now, Rui’s watching the door.”

That seemed to do away with the last of Raúl’s doubts and he slipped into sleep with their fingers still cupping his head. For a moment longer Luís left his hand there. Then he carefully eased it free and up Pep’s arm to the wrist. He started to speak, then grunted irritably and reached back to move the chair as close as he could to the bed. His knee pressed hard into Pep’s other leg and Pep took his hand out of Raúl’s hair.

Luís looked up. Then he smiled wryly. “I always liked him too. He cares too much about too much.”

“You’re with me,” Pep said quietly. “You’ll be with me. You know I’m doing this because I can’t—I can’t _not_. I can’t stand for something like this, when I know—I know I could change it. I can. I will.”

“And it doesn’t matter whether you need me or not. It’s never been about that.” Luís shifted back to rest his arms on his knees, clasping his hands together. He tilted his head to look at Pep. “I won’t lie or hide, Pep. I promise. And you never could lie to me.”

Pep put his hand down on the pillow above Raúl’s head. He glanced at the two on the bed, then drew a deep breath. Something grated and he looked up sharply, but it was only Luís moving the chair back. Pep got off the bed and Luís came over to join him, and they went out of the room together. They had a lot of work to do.


	7. Number Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The past roars back to town.

The waiter came back with the coffee and nervously poured Zlatan a fresh cup. He apologized again before Zlatan had even picked up the cup. When Zlatan sniffed the coffee, the waiter twitched so hard that he nearly dropped the coffeepot.

“Better,” Zlatan said. He put the cup down on its saucer and pushed it across the table to Paolo, who briefly looked up from his paper. “Just about worth the bill. On the second try.”

Paolo’s eyes stayed fixed on the paper, but his lips slightly curved. His fingers made the paper crinkle and Zlatan grinned, ignoring whatever the waiter was babbling now. Then Zlatan threw back his shoulders and put up his hand for the coffeepot. He got the handle but it took a moment for the waiter to figure out that he had to let go too. Zlatan stopped looking at Paolo and half-turned to fix the waiter with a glare before the man could slink off.

“Just what the hell—” Zlatan started.

The door behind the waiter burst open. Alessandro Nesta posed in the doorway, hair still floating back into place, eyes blazing, gun outstretched.

The coffeepot exploded just as Zlatan yanked his hand away from it. Zlatan kept moving, throwing himself into his chair and then over it as it toppled backwards. His feet touched the floor behind the fallen chair and his hand clamped onto the gun under his arm. In front of him the waiter was still spinning around to face Nesta, even more white-faced than before. The waiter’s arms jerked down. Nesta moved his gun slightly, shot twice and the waiter’s arms never came back up.

Zlatan got his gun up, then dropped it as something shiny on the floor caught his eye. He looked at the pistol half-hidden under the waiter’s body, then looked across the table. Paolo was just rising back up from the floor, one hand on the table. His eyes flicked to Zlatan, then forward and Zlatan turned back in time to see Nesta contemptuously brush by him. The man came so close that he had to knee Zlatan’s arm out of the way.

Nesta kicked up Zlatan’s chair so he could get a hold of its back, righted it and then twisted easily into it. His legs sprawled so they blocked Zlatan in against the table. He flipped the gun around in his hand, glanced at it and then slid it under his suit-jacket. His hair was a little shorter than the last time Zlatan had seen him, but otherwise he looked the same, down to the disgusted tilt of his chin. “It’s a sad day when Larsson asks me to save your sorry self from an attempted poisoning, Ibrahimović. And in the Grand’s tea-room, no less. Since when did you have a taste for over-priced trash?”

A hard hiss managed to squeeze out of Zlatan’s mouth before he shut it. He stared at Nesta for a moment, then shook his head. His gaze crossed the body and he swore and jerked himself up. He had one foot over the body before he thought about how that’d look to Nesta, but by then he’d committed himself to the step. His shoulders hunched up as he got over to the door and shut it.

“I…don’t believe we’ve met,” Paolo interrupted smoothly. When Zlatan turned back, Paolo had stood up and was regarding Nesta with one of those cool silky looks. “Thank you very much for the intervention. I—”

Nesta’s brows rose. His eyes swept up and down Paolo. A thinly sardonic smile stretched his lips. “ _Oh_ ,” he said. “That’s when.”

Paolo stopped talking. He didn’t stiffen up but his eyes had turned icy. “Larsson sent you?” he asked after a moment, his voice a carefully calibrated challenge.

“It was more like he cornered me in my bathroom and was enough of a nuisance so that I had to come back.” Then Nesta turned at the waist. He flopped his arms over one side of the chair and looked expectantly at Zlatan. “Of course, I assumed that he actually had a good enough reason to bother with that. But it’s you, so…”

“What the hell are you doing here?” Zlatan snapped. Then he shook his head again. He felt a weight in his hand and remembered his gun, and shoved that away. He could feel Paolo’s corner of the room turning colder by the second, and there was the body on the floor in a public building even if it was a private room, and he hadn’t forgotten at all how much Nesta got under his skin. “Oh, never mind. Look, watch the door while I call somebody to—”

Nesta sighed heavily. His eyes half-shut. He raised one hand to press at their inner corners till they opened again. “Obviously I already thought of that and the maître d’ has been bribed and Ambrosini will be here in a minute or so. Really, even retired I’m still on my game more than you.”

“You’re slipping a bit if you let Henke catch you in the bathroom. He had to bring you your bathrobe, I’m betting.” Zlatan grinned when Nesta obligingly confirmed the guess with a flinch. The hot prickle in Zlatan’s face cooled a bit. He managed not to start when someone knocked at the door, two long and two short. He went to answer it while Nesta was still flushing up in anger. “Anyway, it looks like you’re not so retired now. I knew you wouldn’t be able to stick to it.”

“Only because you’re so direly in need of my help,” Nesta said acidly.

“You’re a saint, you really are.” Then Zlatan opened the door, one hand under his jacket. He took it out when he saw it was Ambrosini, with Gattuso loitering slightly behind. They nodded curtly to him as he let them into the room, then muttered much more welcoming greetings to Nesta.

Gattuso also asked Paolo how he was, which made Nesta’s forehead crease. But after that Nesta ignored the whole exchange and fixed his eyes on Zlatan. He got up out of his seat and smoothed down his suit—its style was current, so he’d cared enough to visit a tailor before returning—then swung deliberately wide of Zlatan as he made his way to the door. “My sainthood notwithstanding, I think we’d better discuss this somewhere else. I’m sure you don’t want to embarrass yourself any more in public.”

“Embarrass myself? How is getting my coffee shot up embar—and what help? I don’t need help!” Zlatan jerked after the other man. He half-raised his arm, then dropped it. Then he turned around. “What?”

Paolo’s brows moved slightly but he didn’t seem to take offense. He finished clearing his throat as if he’d actually needed to and put down his hand. “Are you all right?”

It was a stupid question and Zlatan almost told him so. But Paolo’s tone didn’t match the question, not concerned at all, and that made Zlatan look more closely at the other man. Then he saw how Paolo was angling his head to take in the view beyond Zlatan’s left shoulder, and the hard line of Paolo’s jaw. Zlatan relaxed and Paolo shifted his gaze to him. Paolo pursed his lips and his jawline softened. He moved a little towards Zlatan.

“He’s a stuck-up ass, he always has been. I don’t know what he’s doing back here, but with the way he left, he doesn’t have a right to be mouthing off like that,” Zlatan told Paolo. He noticed that Paolo’s sleeve had ridden up his shoulder and reached out to tug out the wrinkle. “I’m going to call Henke.”

Paolo nodded but not because he was satisfied. He turned his shoulder into Zlatan’s hand but kept looking over Zlatan’s shoulder. “You sound like you know him well,” he said neutrally.

Zlatan cupped his hand around Paolo’s arm and examined the other man’s face. “Sandro Nesta? I know him, but it’s not something I’m fond of—”

“Ibrahimović, if you’re going to dawdle, _I’ll_ call Larsson and then you’ll have to—oh, I beg your pardon.” Nesta dropped his shoulder against one side of the doorway. He had his arms crossed over his chest, but his annoyance had already changed to amusement. “Still reassuring each other?”

“No,” Paolo said curtly.

That made Zlatan take a second hard look at Paolo. But the planes of Paolo’s face were smooth and calm and hard, and his eyes were even more so. He casually stepped away from Zlatan long enough to get their coats. Once Zlatan had his coat on, Paolo gave it a straightening tug like he usually would. Then he looked up to Zlatan’s face.

Zlatan exhaled slowly. He glanced at Nesta, swallowed down the sharp comment the man’s lazy stare raised, and nodded. “Fine. Fine, let’s go. Figo can lend us an office. But I hope you brought your own car, Sandro. Because after that last time, the only way I’m letting you in mine is if you—”

“As if I’d ever willingly tolerate your shoddy driving skills,” Nesta said, turning himself around the jamb. His arms swung down to his sides just before he stepped into the hall. “Well, this way.”

For the second time Zlatan almost lunged after the man, and was stopped by a noise from Paolo. But this time it didn’t look like Paolo had meant for Zlatan to hear it. He wasn’t even looking at Zlatan, but was gazing at the empty doorway. “Sandro Nesta,” he muttered. Then he glanced up at Zlatan. “I see. Should I come to this, or would you like me to hail a cab for home?”

“You can come. I don’t know if you’d want to, but it’d make me feel better,” Zlatan said.

Paolo’s eyes thawed a little. He looked a little long at Zlatan, then abruptly dropped his gaze. Then he rolled his shoulders and was again calm. “I’ll come.”

“All right.” Zlatan gestured for Paolo to go out ahead of him, then went out of the room.

* * *

Figo conveniently failed to be in, but Quaresma found them an empty office and gave them the key to the office’s liquor cabinet before rushing off to deal with a teary-looking Tiago. Zlatan held up the key and Nesta shrugged dismissively. “If you think you need it, but it’s a little early in the day, isn’t it?” he said.

Zlatan snapped the key back into his palm. He stuck his hands in his pockets and leaned back against the door. “Fuck you.”

“You’re as eloquent as always.” Nesta finished his critical look around the room and settled on the couch. He dropped himself into one corner and sighed. His elbow went up on the couch arm and he leaned his head against that hand, absently tugging at his hair. “So. You need help.”

“I do not,” Zlatan snarled. Then he shut his mouth and jerked his head to the side. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular but he ended up watching Paolo at the phone. The other man lowered the receiver and shook his head; Zlatan swallowed back another snarl. He was so irritated that of course Henrik would be out of touch. “Look, I don’t know what Henke told you but I didn’t ask him to talk to you. I haven’t even known where you’ve been.”

Nesta stopped fiddling with his hair and frowned. He started to speak, but then straightened up instead. In the other corner, Paolo hung up the phone and carefully set it back into its alcove.

“Why are Italian shipping magnates trying to poison you, then?” Nesta asked.

“Who?” For a moment Zlatan had completely forgotten the dead waiter. He winced at himself and got off the door. “How’d you know what was going on with that? _What_ was that? Who’s trying to kill me?”

Paolo had already taken the phone back out for him, but the other man wasn’t looking at Zlatan. He was looking to the side, at Nesta whose brows were tangling with his hairline again. “Larsson, obviously,” Nesta said.

“Told you about the hit, I take it? Because if you’re saying that Henke tried to set me up, I’m going to say you must’ve been spending your vacation in a sanatorium, trying to tell people about the pretty fairies who visit you at night,” Zlatan snapped. He grabbed the phone and accidentally pulled Paolo towards him. The other man stumbled and had to catch himself on the sideboard; Zlatan gave him a hand and muttered an apology before taking the receiver off its hook. “What did he say already? Why the hell do you always have to make telling me something this hard? Can’t you just tell me?”

Nesta rolled his eyes and flicked a hand at Zlatan. “Well, if you had any commonsense, you wouldn’t have to rely on me to tell you, would you? You’d already have your own sources. But I see you’re still as thoughtless and disorganized as before.”

Zlatan jerked up the phone. Then he put it down because he’d barely remembered they were in Figo’s offices and Figo hated having wetwork done that close to home. He couldn’t brain Nesta with the phone. He told himself that a second time.

“I think you would be unfamiliar with our sources, given your long time away. But we’d still appreciate any information you have to share with us,” Paolo said calmly. He wasn’t looking at Nesta while he was speaking, but was adjusting one of his spotless, perfect cuffs. He had that little tilt to his head, too. “Which shipping magnate?”

Nesta jerked his head a little as he turned to Paolo, as if he had forgotten Paolo was even there. He leaned back to look down his nose, then slouched so he was showing more of the underside of his chin than his eyes to Paolo. “Oh, is that why he keeps you around?”

“To organize things? I think I do a decent job of keeping his appointment book. There are too many things to remember for even the angel who keeps God’s accounts in order, I believe.” A slight edge had entered Paolo’s voice. When he was finished with his cuff, he still didn’t look up. He flicked a fingertip in the direction of his hair, then pulled out a notebook from his suit-jacket’s inner pocket. “So, then? Do you have a name?”

That made Nesta’s eyes narrow. His chin came down and he belatedly turned a comment into a sharp inhale. He gave Paolo another once-over, slower and more angry, before abruptly pushing himself off the couch. “Certain elderly men from Milan. I don’t think Zlatan would need the names.”

“Neither do I.” Paolo’s eyes briefly rose above the notebook, then dropped back. There hadn’t been a twitch in his face otherwise, and the whole time he’d been dutifully scribbling something in the notebook. “All right. Thank you.”

“You look into that,” Nesta drawled. He sauntered to the point where he had to decide if he was coming towards Zlatan or leaving and paused. His eyes flicked to Zlatan and then over Zlatan’s head. Then he turned his back on Zlatan and made it clear he was for the door. “In the meantime, I suppose I’ll try to keep you alive for the sake of the business, Ibra.”

“For the business? You fucking _left_ because—goddamn it.” Zlatan barely pulled himself out of that first enraged step. He shook his head, then turned around.

A moment later, he couldn’t help a flinch as the door clicked shut. It wasn’t slammed and that, like everything else, was on purpose. Zlatan’s shoulders hitched up again and he irritably grabbed at one to pull it back down. The muscles were so tense that he couldn’t make them budge, which only irritated him more.

“Are you still going to call Henrik?” Paolo asked.

“What? Oh.” The phone in Zlatan’s hand momentarily surprised him. Then he grimaced and started spinning the dial. “That fucking smug bastard. He hasn’t changed a bit.”

Paolo looked at him. Then the other man slipped the pencil inside the notebook and laid it to the side. He looked back at Zlatan. “Did you two work together before?”

“Why are you so interested?” Zlatan snapped. He winced before he’d finished talking and looked away from Paolo. Then he started to explain, but the phone buzzed and he had to deal with that.

He got the earpiece up and Paolo started to turn away. Zlatan shoved the mouthpiece into the same hand that had the earpiece and pressed that awkwardly to his mouth. He used his freed hand to grab Paolo’s arm. The other man glanced back, brows raised. Then they went down and he stared a little harder at Zlatan, who had only managed to get Henrik’s housekeeper on the phone. After a moment, Paolo stepped closer so Zlatan didn’t have to keep his arm stretched out.

The housekeeper didn’t know where Henrik was and didn’t think he was eating in that night. It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t a surprise either but it still annoyed Zlatan even more and he hung up hard on her. Then he paused and stared out at the room.

“I’ll send her some flowers,” Paolo said.

Zlatan looked down at the other man. He rocked on his feet, then let go of Paolo’s arm and snorted. “I never talk about him because I was fine pretending he didn’t exist. Nesta was my partner for a while, back when I first joined up, before they figured out I’m better on my own. He was just as much of a shit back then, too.”

Paolo’s mouth parted, then shut as he nodded. He took another step towards Zlatan so their feet were slotted between each other. His hands rose to Zlatan’s hips but his head dropped so he was facing Zlatan’s shoulder. That turned his nape to Zlatan and a whiff of cologne rose from his skin. “So you never liked him.”

“You don’t seem to like him much either.” The phone was hovering dangerously near Paolo’s head, so Zlatan moved it. Then he got his free arm up around Paolo and took back the mouthpiece. He started dialing another number. “Even though he’s a shit, he’s not an—he wasn’t an idiot, except for when he left. He probably looked me up before he came back, so he would know who you are.”

“I thought as much.” The way Paolo said that, he could have been asking for Zlatan to join him in the shower. His hands drew twin half-circles over the tops of Zlatan’s hips. He leaned in even closer.

Zlatan kept his mouth out of Paolo’s hair, but he moved his chin so the other man could get under it. The phone was still ringing and it was a good thing because Paolo’s mouth went straight to a cut from the morning’s shave. And Paolo hung on till Zlatan had stopped hissing and started chuckling. Then the man slid his tongue over the cut and Zlatan went back to hissing. “You could just ask if we fucked,” Zlatan snorted.

Paolo’s fingers dug into Zlatan’s sides. Then they slid back to nearly come off Zlatan’s legs. It’d been a while since Paolo had flinched like that, let alone with Zlatan.

“We didn’t.” Zlatan lowered his arm so it rested on Paolo’s shoulders and back. He let his breath move through Paolo’s hair as he talked. “I’ll admit I tried. Once. He is something to look at, and once in a while he wasn’t so bad. But he was a shit about that, too. More of one than he had to be. So I didn’t bother trying again. I already had enough work.”

At that point Paolo raised his head and met Zlatan’s eyes. He had to lean his weight into Zlatan to do it, but he was stiff about it. “When did he leave?”

“A long time after. It wasn’t about me, much as—no, actually I wouldn’t like it to have been about me. He did it in such a goddamned sorry way that I wouldn’t want to have had anything to do with it,” Zlatan said. He vaguely heard the phone still ringing and pressed down on the hook. It clicked louder than he’d expected and he flinched, which made Paolo back off a little. So Zlatan pulled him back and this time he fitted himself up against Zlatan. “Anything else?”

Paolo suddenly flushed up. He half-cleared his throat and dropped his eyes. His hands moved back and forth over Zlatan’s hips in short, jerky strokes. “No. I—thank you. I didn’t mean—”

Zlatan kissed him and he stopped trying to explain. He kissed back, sliding his hands up Zlatan’s back and then curling them tight over Zlatan’s shoulderblades, like he was trying to wrench them out. His knees pushed into either side of Zlatan’s left leg and Zlatan nearly smashed the phone into Paolo’s side before remembering he had it, and couldn’t put that arm around Paolo till he got rid of it. He did consider the idea.

But Paolo pulled back first. He looked up at Zlatan, ran his tongue slow and satisfied over his lower lip, and smiled. “Can you get hold of Henrik?”

“I’m _trying_. I just tried to call Guardiola but he’s not picking up either. I’m going to try Raúl and if that doesn’t work, I guess I’ll have to go out and look for myself,” Zlatan said after a moment, when he remembered what they were talking about. Then he felt Paolo tense up and frowned down at the other man. “No, I think Nesta’s probably telling the truth about the Milan cartel. They’ve been due to take a shot at us. But I don’t think they’ve got the men in town to line up another try so close, and people should see they couldn’t get the job done.”

Paolo thought it over. His hands dropped to the middle of Zlatan’s back and flexed there a few times, then came round to Zlatan’s waist. He nodded without looking at Zlatan. “You do need to talk to him. But if you can wait a moment, I can call a driver for you. It’ll be faster.”

“And then you’re going to torch Milan?” Zlatan grinned, handing over the phone. “Or at least send them the matches?”

The other man flicked over a reprimanding look that barely tried to graze Zlatan’s chin. “I don’t have anything against the city. And I don’t think we need to go there anyway to do something about it.”

“I like you when you’re vengeful. It’s a good look on you.” Zlatan brushed his lips over Paolo’s temple, then left the other man with the phone for a moment. 

He went over to the door and opened it, then stuck his head out. Down the hall a more cheerful-looking Tiago wasn’t doing anything, so Zlatan called him over and asked him if he wouldn’t mind driving Paolo back to the office. Tiago couldn’t come up with a decent objection and agreed. When Zlatan turned around, Paolo was already at his elbow with the phone. He handed that to Zlatan, told him that Flamini would be round in ten minutes, and went off with Tiago. Zlatan grinned one more time before seriously applying himself to the phone.

* * *

It took a half-hour watching Villa try to watch Zlatan to death while Raúl made calls in the background, but they pinned down Henrik to a location. Raúl got him on the phone and he seemed surprised to find out about Nesta, and agreed to stay put till Zlatan could get over to him. He was playing golf.

“I like it,” he said when Zlatan got to him.

Zlatan stared at the spotless putting green under their feet. In the distance a man was raking a sand-trap into endless rows of perfectly parallel lines. “Why?”

“Because it’s relaxing and if I should need to suddenly be not relaxed, a golf club is more precise than a baseball bat.” Henrik stooped and retrieved his ball from the tee. He twisted it between his fingers, wiped off a fleck of dirt, and put it back down. “I did go see Nesta.”

Zlatan stared at him. “ _Why_?”

Henrik didn’t look back. Instead he straightened up and stared narrow-eyed before them. He frowned at something far in the distance and shifted his feet. He twisted the golf club in his hands. Then he swung it back and up, paused so the head was about level with Zlatan’s eyes, and whipped it forward. The ball snapped into a tiny white dot in the sky.

“I still hate him,” Zlatan added.

The other man was watching the ball come down. He sighed a little at where it landed, then flipped his club up onto his shoulder and twisted around. He reached for the bag of clubs by Zlatan’s feet. “That’s why I saw him.”

“Because—because I hate him? Henke, that’s nice of you but I was getting around to finding him myself.” A bead of sweat suddenly slid down the right side of Zlatan’s face. He irritably wiped it off before it reached his jawline, then squinted up at the sun as he dug out a handkerchief for his fingers. It was bright and hot and he hadn’t seen it in long enough that it was a bit strange. “When I felt like finding him again. He’s such a bastard.”

“I didn’t mean for him to come so you could kill him.” Henrik paused again, half-bent over his bag of clubs. Then he straightened back up and gave Zlatan the same narrow-eyed look he’d given the falling ball. “I _don’t_ mean for you to kill him.”

Zlatan whistled his breath through his teeth. He put his hands in his pockets, then took them out. Then he put one back in so he could put away his handkerchief. “He just about called Paolo a cheap whore, did you hear that part?”

“I’m sure Paolo will take a sensible view of it.” After a moment Henrik bent again. The clubs clicked softly as he fingered through them. He settled on one and took it out and stood up so he had clubs in both hands. Then he gave the old one to Zlatan. “When are you telling him about Nesta?”

The club was more top-heavy than Zlatan had expected and started to tip almost as soon as he got his hand around it. He swung it back, then let it slip through his fingers till it was holding straight of its own accord.

“You’ll have to. Or I’m sure Nesta will,” Henrik remarked casually.

“I already did,” Zlatan snapped. He dropped his arm sharply.

Henrik’s eyes slid down to Zlatan’s right and stayed there till Zlatan had pulled the club back up. They looked at the club’s handle while Zlatan looked at the top of Henrik’s head. It was smooth and tanned and had not a speck of sweat on it. Then Zlatan looked away, out over the golf course. He grimaced and dragged up the club, and began to clean the dirt and grass off of the tip of the handle.

“You and Paolo are doing quite well,” Henrik started.

Zlatan glared at him. “That’s not what Nesta said you said.”

“Even so, you are.” Then Henrik turned back to the tee. He pulled a ball out of his pocket and set it down, then squared his feet in parallel with it. “I’d think this would be your last shipping war, this one you have right now. After it, you’ll have consolidated your position.”

“And all that without Nesta,” Zlatan drawled.

“Yes, without him,” Henrik agreed. He rotated his club this way and that, his eyes on some distant spot. Then he put his club down. His eyes stayed on the spot as he adjusted the way the head sat on the grass. He frowned and flexed his fingers around the handle. “Zlatan, he was going to come back sooner or later.”

The club went up and down. They watched that ball disappear into the sky. “Just because I’m good enough to do it doesn’t mean I want the job of babysitting him,” Zlatan said. “Anyway, it’s his own damn fault for having that fit and running off. God, I can’t wait to hear what Rui Costa has to say on—Nesta doesn’t think he’s going to waltz right back to his seat, does he?”

“I have no idea.” Henrik put up one hand to shade his eyes. Then he lowered it and shook his head. He looked reprovingly at the club in his hand, then put his other, empty hand back behind him. “He didn’t want to come back till I mentioned you had also had your own war going on. Then he seemed interested.”

After a moment, Zlatan handed over the first club and took the second. He glanced over its head, but that still looked clean. “Where the hell was he, anyway? The beach?”

“Yes.” The other man put down a fresh ball. He stared at it, then backed up a step. He licked his finger and put it up, as if he was testing the wind for a shot. “It was a very nice sandcastle. I’m a little sorry I wrecked it.”

Zlatan blinked at the laugh he let out. Then he shrugged back his shoulders and dropped the club’s head on the ground. He leaned on it for a moment before Henrik stiffened and then he hastily took it back up. “I could do without Nesta right now, you know.”

“I know. Everybody could,” Henrik said. He lowered his hand and wrapped it back around the club, then moved slightly to the left. He squinted at the distant spot again. “So you’ll take care of him?”

“All right,” Zlatan sighed.

* * *

Halfway back to the clubhouse Zlatan recognized the silhouette leaning against one of its pillars. He slowed and glanced around, then grimaced. He picked his pace back up.

“I see you at least still have your eyesight. If not the brains to use it.” Nesta levered himself away from the clubhouse. He frowned down at his sleeve, then flicked his hand over the slight dusty smear on his elbow. He straightened his suit-jacket and tie too. Then he looked back up at Zlatan. “If people are trying to kill you and I’m trying to stop them, then it hardly makes sense to run away from me.”

The walk back hadn’t been too long but there had been some hills. It took a moment for Zlatan to steady his breathing so his voice wouldn’t have a misleading shake to it. “I wasn’t running away. I was talking to Henrik and he says it went like you said, so fine. Let’s go. I have a meeting in town in a half-hour and I want to be on time.”

“That’s very generous of you, all of a sudden,” Nesta said.

Zlatan went past Nesta. He heard the other man’s quick step behind him and noted the scuff to it, like Nesta had slipped a bit on a pebble. “You missed it since you were away but I’ve got a business to run now. I can’t lay around and wait for you to finish touching up your face.”

“I wasn’t in the toilet. I was calling to see if my luggage had arrived at my hotel. Since I had to come up so quickly I couldn’t even wait for that.” Nesta slid up beside Zlatan for a glower. He had his arms a little in towards his body and swinging more tensely than before. He jerked his chin at Zlatan. “What meeting? With who?”

“Why don’t you check with my secretary?” Zlatan muttered. By then they were around the clubhouse and just starting onto the parking lot. Zlatan looked for the car, paused and then gritted his teeth. He kept walking. He couldn’t go back to the clubhouse and use the phone because it’d take too long, and he did want to be on time for the meeting. “Instead of getting rid of my driver. Who knows a hell of a lot more about what’s going on than you do.”

That got a laugh out of Nesta. It was low and rich, and made him loosen up his arms and shoulders. He shook his head. “I’m sure, but he has better things to do. And I’m sure that your secretary would direct me straight into an upstate sewer. He seems like the type, under those lovely suits. Did you pick them out for him? Superb tailoring, but a little dull for you, I’d think. Only black and white.”

“Paolo doesn’t need me to tell him how to dress, or to tell you where to go. He’s got better things to do. Including handling you, if he has to. I almost hope so because I’m going to enjoy watching that.” Zlatan stopped about two spaces down from the car and looked at Nesta. “After you, please. Henrik’s talked me into letting you ruin my car, for the good of everyone else.”

Nesta snorted. He wasn’t looking at Zlatan, but was digging in his pocket. Then he pulled out a ring of keys. “I can’t expect you to appreciate the lengths I’m going to here, but you can at least not kick the back of the seat like you used to if I’m going to drive.”

“I’ll sit up front and keep you company,” Zlatan drawled. 

* * *

They didn’t talk during the drive over, except at the beginning when Zlatan told Nesta the address. Whatever Nesta said, he’d been back in town for at least a couple days because he didn’t need to ask Zlatan for directions even though they used roads that hadn’t been around when he’d left. He still drove the same way, too fast and too risky for him to scold Zlatan on that. Maybe a little more focused, with his eyes fixed on the streets outside, as if he’d forgotten Zlatan was there and why he was there.

The meeting was in a hotel with enough of a reputation among the snobs that even Nesta couldn’t muster up any complaints about it. Paolo met them there. He didn’t seem surprised to see Nesta and neither did the others, though God knew what Paolo had told them. He also did Zlatan the favor of towing Nesta off to the side while Zlatan did the talking. It wasn’t pleasant to have Nesta’s eyes cutting at Zlatan but at least Zlatan got the business settled.

He saw the men out himself, then came back with half an eye on the well-stocked bar. His business partners had had the chance to take advantage of it but he’d kept his hands out of it.

“Don’t you have a late night up?” Nesta asked. He swung himself around a chair and then leaned against it. He crossed one foot over the other at the ankle, then gave a jerk of the chin towards the left. “Your secretary says so.”

Paolo kept his hands moving over the folders on the table, making them into a neat pile. Then he slid them into his bag. He didn’t move when Zlatan went behind him but he exhaled when Zlatan let one hand drift across the small of his back. “I’ll be in the lobby,” he said.

“All right.” Zlatan let the other man step away from the table. Then he turned and braced a hip against the table. He watched Paolo go.

The door shut behind Paolo and it was quiet except for some footsteps. A cabinet opened and closed. Glass clinked, and then there was the higher-pitched clink of ice on glass.

“You’re going to have a late night, too,” Zlatan said, looking over at Nesta.

The other man arched his brows and smiled thinly. He finished pouring himself a drink and then picked up the glass to swirl around the ice. “You always had that quirk,” he said. He came over. He could have swung wide of the table but instead he walked along the edge, occasionally twisting himself around the chairs. “You like to look like this loudmouth kid from nowhere, too full of himself to take it from anyone, but you always end up keeping company with somebody…”

Zlatan tapped his fingers against the table. He showed some teeth in his smile. “…boring?”

“I was going to say, more sensible.” Then Nesta shrugged indifferently. He stopped just short of Zlatan and turned to the table, where he set down the glass. “Or maybe I mean more mature.”

“You don’t mean that as nice as it sounds, I think,” Zlatan muttered. The side of the glass touched his hand and he moved back a little. Then he flattened his hand and stood still. He looked at the door. “Look, Sandro, how about you tell me who the hell you really think you’re saving me from, and we figure out how to kill them, and then you can go back to your beach house and I can go—”

“Fuck Maldini out of his nice suit?” Nesta said, pushing up into Zlatan’s arm. His fingers clamped around Zlatan’s bicep when Zlatan tried to move. His lips were pulled back and he looked like he was smiling and like he was going to bite out Zlatan’s throat. “Is that what you’re going to do?”

After a moment Zlatan shook him off. A chair caught Zlatan in the back and he stumbled, then spun and kicked the chair out of the way. He hadn’t quite gotten his balance back and he had to take two more awkward steps sideways before he managed to straighten up. He glanced at the other man, then jerked his head away. Half a laugh wheezed out through his teeth. He shook his head and ran one hand through his hair.

“I killed them already.” Nesta yanked so hard at his wrinkled shirt that something shiny flew away. At first Zlatan thought it was a button, but then Nesta reached for the glass he’d left on the table. The man’s sleeve flapped open, missing its cufflink. It nearly covered Nesta’s face as he downed the drink in one swallow.

“I thought you said they were in Milan,” Zlatan said. He ran his hand through his hair again.

The glass went down but Nesta’s eyes stayed up. They leveled at Zlatan, black and burning. Then Nesta twisted away. He flicked the glass onto the table as he went, sending it whirling dangerously close to the edge. “They were. I made a stop before I came here. So you can call off your secretary.”

“You need another drink?” Zlatan asked after a moment. “You sound a little like you’ve got a stuck throat.”

When Nesta laughed, his throat sounded clear enough. He shook his head and kept turning, like he was meaning to walk out. “Not even a thanks.”

“I don’t need to thank you when you’re still making up for before,” Zlatan snapped.

Nesta whipped back and in two strides he was back in front of Zlatan, his hand on Zlatan’s chest. His fingers were curled to stab around Zlatan’s heart. “Before? _Before_? I’m sorry, you’re still—”

“Yes, I’m still mad about that! You left! You left, you fucking—” Zlatan slapped away Nesta’s hand. Something white blurred to Zlatan’s right and he shoved up his forearm. He blocked that blow, then shoved Nesta back by the shoulders. “We were just starting to—and then you lose your nerve about killing people and run off, and I had to deal with all the shit you left. I was in the hospital twice the month after you went and it wasn’t a fucking picnic. Why wouldn’t I be mad?”

“I thought it was going to be about that lousy try at getting me in bed,” Nesta said.

Zlatan laughed, grabbing the back of his neck. He spun slowly on his heel till he was facing mostly away from the other man. “You would. It was all about you and not about the turf war we were in the middle of.”

“I thought you’d be all right,” Nesta added. He stroked the hair out of his face so he could stare at the wall. “With the turf war. You’re good enough, when you bother about it.”

“I was. I lived, didn’t I?” Zlatan snarled. He scratched his neck, then exhaled sharply. He checked the clock on the wall. “I need to go. I got—”

“I didn’t lose my nerve.” Then Nesta smiled humorlessly and moved out of Zlatan’s way. He made a big sweep of his arm towards the door. “Not that you care, but it wasn’t that. I could have stayed if it was just about what we were doing. That was never the problem.”

Zlatan didn’t stop to even roll his eyes as he headed out. “Well, it’s a couple years too late to be telling me what was the problem. Go try and save me if you want, Sandro. I don’t give a shit these days.”

* * *

Paolo shifted on his arms and it made his shoulderblades stand out against his back. His left one pushed up hard enough to nudge away Zlatan’s nose and chin. Then it dropped a little and Zlatan moved his head back. He stretched out his tongue so its tip just touched the edge of the shoulderblade. Then he rolled his head up and off, and licked from the edge onto the flat of the blade.

“There,” Paolo grunted, exhaling in relief. Something dropped to the rug just by his and Zlatan’s heads: Zlatan’s belt.

Zlatan grinned and bent his head to Paolo’s back again, lapping up a rivulet of sweat. “Did you bite through it? I liked that one.”

“I might have gnawed it a little.” Paolo rolled his shoulders back, then levered himself up so Zlatan had to give him some room. He turned over and dropped his right arm across Zlatan’s shoulders. He kept his left arm down so he could suck at the red lines running around his wrist. His eyes weren’t too concerned. “You ripped my tie.”

“Because I didn’t like it,” Zlatan snorted. He moved a little right so he could put his elbows on the floor. His knee brushed up Paolo’s thigh and he paused to watch Paolo arch. Then he moved his leg again. This time he let his lips run up Paolo’s throat with the man’s twist. “So this way, I can buy you a new one.”

Paolo bent up higher the second time, then settled back with another grunt. He blinked fresh sweat out of his eyes. His hand grazed the side of Zlatan’s face, then turned so he could pick strands off of Zlatan’s temple. “Does Nesta want an introduction to your tailor too?”

After a moment Zlatan pushed himself back to sit on the other man’s waist. He sighed and rubbed one hand over his face. “I’m not going to fuck him. I like fucking you, I just _fucked_ you, I want to fuck you again but not if you’re going to make me think about him. That good enough?”

“I know. I’m sorry.” Paolo half-sat, paused a few seconds, and then pushed himself up the rest of the way. His hand slid on the clothes rumpled behind him and he dragged them to the side without looking. “But it doesn’t mean he doesn’t want you to fuck him.”

“What?” Zlatan said, snorting again. He put his hand down and stared at Paolo. Then he laughed. He reached out and ran his finger down Paolo’s cheek. “You really think so?”

The muscle of Paolo’s cheek twitched. His gaze didn’t. Then he looked away. His hands dropped to Zlatan’s thighs, lifted a bit, and then curved firmly around them. He started to drag his legs out from under Zlatan. “The only way he could be more obvious about it was if he sat on your lap, Zlatan.”

“Like you’re going to?” Zlatan asked.

Paolo stopped. He still had one foot under him, though the other was pulled under him in a crouch. He tipped his head and considered it down Zlatan’s bare chest to Zlatan’s prick. Then he put out his hand and took Zlatan’s cock in his palm, letting it roll a little over his fingers. He sighed and turned his shoulders as if he was twisting away. But his hips went forward and his hand pulled up Zlatan’s cock, and in one smooth motion he was straddling Zlatan, his body instead of his hand holding up Zlatan’s prick while it got around to standing up without the help. He dropped his elbows on Zlatan’s shoulders and looked down at Zlatan, breathing a little hard. “Not like me, I would think.”

“Yeah.” Zlatan had to take a couple deep breaths himself. He hooked his arm around Paolo’s waist and Paolo twined his tongue around Zlatan’s ear, and Zlatan had to inhale again. “Yeah, well, if it’s that way, it’s his problem, not mine.”

“So can I have a word with him about it?” Paolo murmured, biting Zlatan’s earlobe. He chuckled when Zlatan grabbed his arm and twisted it up behind his back. He let that drag him off, but then swayed there on Zlatan’s prick, easy as if he was straddling a fence, half-lidded eyes amused under their long lashes. His other arm was still lying relaxed over Zlatan’s shoulder. “Because I don’t like it when somebody puts his problem on someone else.”

“Because he’s got the legs of a chorus-girl and he acts like somebody needs to shove him into a wall,” Zlatan said. He tightened his grip on Paolo’s wrist, then let Paolo’s arm untwist and come back around. Then he pulled it up and sucked hard at one of the red creases his belt had left on Paolo’s wrist. Paolo’s eyes flared and Zlatan grinned, kissing another crease. “It’s not going to be me. I don’t care what he wants.”

Fingers brushed Zlatan’s cheek, but Paolo was pursing his lips. He opened his mouth when Zlatan moved from his wrist to that, but his free arm still was only lying over Zlatan’s back. “Good.”

“You want to fuck him?” Zlatan asked. Then he laughed and kissed Paolo’s startled, slack lips. He dropped both hands to Paolo’s hips and pulled the other man flush against him, and then kneaded Paolo’s legs while Paolo tried to adjust without hissing.

Zlatan bit the top of Paolo’s left shoulder and Paolo sent a hot stream of air slicing through Zlatan’s hair like a bullet. His nails raked down Zlatan’s back and Zlatan reached back, grabbed that hand and pulled it down to Paolo’s hip. He raised his head and Paolo kissed him so hard that their teeth met. Then Paolo got a handful of Zlatan’s hair and kissed even harder.

It took two tries to get that hand down without ripping out half of Zlatan’s scalp. Once he got it pinned to Paolo’s other hip, he took his time. He rocked his hips up and then mouthed the neck Paolo stretched out for him. When he got to the end of it, he licked up the side of Paolo’s face and across one eyebrow. Then he opened his jaw wide and just let his upper teeth glance off it.

“He didn’t give me a ring,” Paolo finally grated out. He twisted his head away from Zlatan and then looked up. His lips were tight and his knees were starting to clamp into Zlatan’s legs. Then he smiled, close-mouthed, jaw still tense. “Call me old-fashioned.”

“It’s not like I’d blame you. He’s a son of a bitch, all right, but he has this way of…” Zlatan twisted his head aside and took Paolo’s teeth on the edge of his jaw. He bucked up into the other man, hissing as the biting started to _hurt_ , and then finally tipped them back onto the floor. He didn’t give Paolo a moment but drove into the other man while Paolo was still writhing from the impact. “Anyway—call me—call me when you’re done with—with him.”

Paolo lifted his head, then dropped it and arched back on it. His shoulders lifted clear of the floor and he was balancing on the top of his head and his elbows. He wrapped his legs around Zlatan and dug his heels into Zlatan’s back, all but kicking Zlatan deeper into him. Then he reached out and grabbed Zlatan’s shoulders and pulled Zlatan down so hard that Zlatan skidded off his knees.

They rolled onto their sides. Hot gasping breaths spilled over Zlatan’s face till he couldn’t see. He tucked his head into Paolo’s neck and shoulder, trying to get some foothold on the rug. Paolo ripped at his back and Zlatan snarled, grabbing at Paolo’s hip. His hand slipped all the way nearly to Paolo’s knee, where Zlatan’s fingers caught on the bend in the joint. He pressed his fingers into Paolo’s leg and yanked hard on it, and had to throw his head out of Paolo’s neck for air.

His body kept moving for one last buck and that was enough for Paolo. They slumped into the rug, gasping over each other.

Zlatan kissed Paolo’s shoulder when he could see again. Paolo moved his arm back and touched Zlatan’s temple. Something glinted at the edge of Zlatan’s vision and he turned his head. Then he grinned and kissed the ring on Paolo’s finger. “Smart of me to lock up a good thing when I saw one.”

Paolo let his head loll around on the rug as he laughed, hoarse but full-throated and lazy. “I’ll tell you how it went.”

* * *

Nesta hadn’t come home with Zlatan and that ended up losing Zlatan a pair of trousers as well as the belt and Paolo’s tie, but it put Zlatan in a mood to tolerate the other man when he did show up the next morning. Zlatan even invited him in for breakfast.

“No, thanks,” Nesta said. He turned towards some letters on a sideboard and then looked at Zlatan down his shoulder. His eyes flicked around the hall. “Where’s Maldini?”

“At the office already. By the way, he wants to talk to you. Get you up to date on what I’ll be doing for the rest of the week.” Zlatan slid between the other man and the wall, and picked up the letters while he was at it. He knocked his hat off its peg on the wall and paused for it to land on his head, then adjusted the angle while he got the door open. Then he looked back.

Nesta was already coming. His back was stiff and he nearly threw his shoulder into Zlatan on the way out. He stopped on the second step down to look around, then moved out of Zlatan’s way.

“I thought you said you killed them all,” Zlatan said. He came out onto the steps, then turned back to shut and lock the door.

“You can never kill them all. I thought you knew that, what with taking on a secretary and having a seat on the board and taking this seriously,” Nesta replied. His gaze flicked over one shoulder. It went up to the roof as he dropped one foot down a step, then swept out over the street. He frowned and pulled at his cuffs. “What’s the point of having him schedule things if you still have to tell people about them?”

Zlatan blinked his eyes against the bright sun. “How’s eleven-thirty for you? I’m having lunch with Guardiola at eleven, and after that I’m coming back to the office, so I don’t think I’ll be needing you. You’ll probably have more fun with Paolo than kicking around Guardiola’s lobby.”

The other man slid another look over his shoulder. Then he went down the steps and to the car at the curb. As early as it was, the sun was already bleaching the walk a blazing white. Nesta’s lean angles cut through it like a knife through butter. He got into the car on the driver’s side and then stretched across to pop open Zlatan’s door. Then he rested there on his elbow, squinting out at Zlatan. His hat had slipped a little to slice a triangular shadow down over his left eye.

“I guess you can do it later, if you have something else on your plate, but Paolo’s already marked you down for then and he doesn’t like rescheduling,” Zlatan said, walking up to the open door. He put both hands against the roof and bent down and into the car. “He’s already not too happy about having to call off things in Milan.”

A furrow pinched up between Nesta’s brows. Then he snorted and shook his head, and pulled himself back across the car. “I told you about that only a day ago. What on earth could he have done already?”

“Well, you can ask him about that when you see him.” Zlatan ducked into the car and spent a moment arranging his legs. He shut the door and draped his arm along the window. “Or I guess you can run off back to the beach.”

The smooth plane of Nesta’s cheek tightened up till a bullet would have bounced off it. “I’m not leaving this time, Zlatan.”

Zlatan didn’t comment on that. He took off his hat and ruffled his fingers through his hair.

Nesta turned the key in the ignition. The engine grumbled to life only a little softer than the man’s snort. “He should do your tie a little higher if he’s going to feel that threatened. You’re not going to get away with calling that a shaving cut.”

“So eleven-thirty’s fine?” Zlatan asked as they pulled away from the curb.

“It’ll do.” The traffic in their lane was too sluggish for Nesta and he made the wheels screech as he switched to the one on the right. It suited him better and he relaxed into his seat. His hands slid off the wheel till only the fingertips were still touching it, then pushed forward so he was resting his wrists on the rim. “He doesn’t look like someone who’d like a hard fuck. He’s a little neat for it.”

Zlatan exhaled sharply and dropped his arm off the window. He twisted towards Nesta, then put his hand on the dash and pushed himself back into his seat. He breathed again. “Look, Sandro, what were you thinking? That I was waiting around for you to show up again and we’d take up where we left off?”

“No. When I left, you weren’t taking up anything of mine so—” Then Nesta spat out the rest of his breath. He wrenched his mouth around like he was trying to drag something else in by the teeth, then snapped his teeth together. He put up his hand and pressed at his temple, then put his hand back on the wheel. “Zlatan, I wasn’t even thinking about you when I left.”

“I know—”

“Shut up and let me finish or I’ll crash the car,” Nesta said curtly. His fingers flexed down over the wheel. They gripped it hard enough to make the leather creak, then slowly peeled up off it till he was steering with the palms of his hands. He sighed. “I did miss you. Don’t let it inflate your ego too much, but once I had left—well, as I said.”

“All right,” Zlatan said after a moment.

Nesta glanced at him, then looked back at the road. The man breathed in slowly. He pressed his lips together till they almost disappeared. Then they curled a little, just at the corner. He breathed again and his lips suddenly curved deep into a smile. “Eleven-thirty’s fine,” he told Zlatan. “Tell him I’m looking forward to it.”

Zlatan finally nodded.

* * *

Paolo didn’t sound too bothered when he heard Nesta’s reply, so Zlatan stopped thinking about it. He went to lunch with Guardiola and they talked about Rui Costa’s manpower problems, and how to deal with some ongoing troublemakers among the dockworkers. It was a little more complicated than it could have been because Guardiola didn’t want to call on Raúl’s contacts. He thought the man was overworked as it was, and didn’t want to overexpose Raúl when Morientes still had stitches in him. Guardiola didn’t seem to have much of an opinion of David Villa, who was Morientes’ cover for the moment. Zlatan didn’t like Villa either but he had seen the man work and Villa was competent enough for regular bodyguard duties.

It wasn’t like Guardiola to underestimate people’s capabilities so there was something else. Later Zlatan would have to ask Paolo to look into it. He and Guardiola got along fine, but Guardiola wasn’t the kind of person that Zlatan wanted to pry around himself.

They finished the lunch a little later than Zlatan had planned on, but he had nothing urgent for the afternoon now that Milan was apparently settled. He did head out straight away, but he decided not to call Paolo first. It wasn’t worth the extra time to apologize before he got there.

Nesta was waiting outside of the main office door. He was leaning against the wall when Zlatan stepped out of the elevator, but he pushed off as Zlatan came up. He was missing his hat and his suit-jacket was slung over his arm. His face wasn’t bruised up and he moved as smoothly as he had earlier when he turned towards Zlatan.

“You had your talk?” Zlatan asked.

“Yes, and it was very nice. It was a good idea.” Nesta stepped around Zlatan and nodded towards the elevator. “But I’m hungry now. I’m going out for lunch.”

“Well, I’ll be—”

“Yes, I already checked with Paolo,” Nesta drawled, strolling down the hall. He lifted one hand, then swung his suit-jacket back over his shoulders.

Zlatan watched the other man push the button for the elevator. He put his hand on the knob of the office door, then looked back towards Nesta. Then he shrugged and twisted the knob. He went in as the elevator chimed its arrival.

Paolo was bent over his desk, his hands deep in some papers. His head was already snapping up before Zlatan got all the way through the door. He knocked something to the floor but didn’t look at it. Instead he looked at Zlatan, stepping back and then up to the desk. He lifted his hands, grimaced, and stepped towards the end of the desk while smoothing his clothes. Something crunched and he stopped, then stooped with another grimace. He got the dropped sheet off the floor and tossed it onto the desk, then left his hand on the desk’s edge.

“I didn’t see any missing parts,” Zlatan said after a moment. He took off his hat and his suit-jacket, and left them on a chair. Then he went over to the other man. “What’d he say?”

“That he’s staying. That he’d like to…” Then Paolo looked away. He pursed his lips and leaned his hip against the desk. He rapped his fingers, then moved one shoulder. “That he’d like to come to an accommodation with me, since it seems that we’ll have to work together.”

Zlatan braced himself against the desk by Paolo. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked where Paolo was looking, at a painting on the wall. Paolo had picked it out of an art dealer’s catalog, mostly joking, but Zlatan had cut out the photo and sent it over to Buffon, and it’d shown up the next week. They’d had to contribute to Mutu’s debt-repayment fund for it, but Paolo seemed to like it.

“He did apologize,” Paolo added, his voice lofting absently. He turned and glanced up and down Zlatan, then did another turn so he was laying flat on Zlatan. His hands went to Zlatan’s hips, then under them to make a cushion against the desk’s edge. He bit his lower lip, then let it roll out from under his teeth, looking up through his lashes. “How was Guardiola?”

“Fine. A little paranoid about Rui Costa, I think, but we made it…we made it through the meeting without anything broken.” Zlatan shifted up. He put his hand on Paolo’s side. “Wait a minute.”

Paolo kept on working his fingers up Zlatan’s sides. He got to Zlatan’s waist and stopped there to knead Zlatan’s shirt out of his trousers. He kept looking at Zlatan like they were just having a conversation. “Did you talk about the dockworkers?”

“Yeah, we—yeah, we did and _wait_ ,” Zlatan said. He grabbed the other man’s arms.

A flash of anger went through Paolo’s eyes. He stiffened up, then dropped his gaze. He started to exhale slowly before he suddenly shoved Zlatan hard. The desk got in the way but it still rattled Zlatan’s teeth. He hissed and jerked at Paolo, making the other man stagger. Paolo’s head whipped up and back as his feet slid and his eyes weren’t just flashing angry anymore. He sucked in a breath, then snorted. He showed some teeth in his smile as he looked over Zlatan again. “What if I said I know what he tastes like now? Would you still want to wait?”

Zlatan heard his teeth click together. He yanked Paolo off him and took a step away from the desk. Then he twisted on his heel; Paolo’s arm was still thrown out for balance and Zlatan hooked his hand around it, and yanked the other man back. Paolo’s hand slapped into the side of Zlatan’s head, and then their mouths met and Paolo dragged his fingers into Zlatan’s hair. He bit Zlatan’s lip and Zlatan snarled, knotting his hand up in the back of Paolo’s shirt. Paolo bit again and Zlatan pushed him back onto the desk.

There was enough paper under Paolo so he’d nearly slid off by the time Zlatan stepped up between his sprawling legs. Zlatan grabbed a knee and a thigh and pushed him back, and followed the movement through so their mouths locked again. This time Paolo didn’t bite him. He still got Paolo’s wrists and pinned them down, and didn’t let up till he felt the man going limp.

“Do you?” Zlatan snapped.

Paolo gasped a few times. His eyes were hazy and he didn’t breathe enough to clear them all the way. “Wait? Or the other?”

Zlatan inhaled like he was snarling in reverse. He raked his gripping hands up and down Paolo’s arms, then came down on the other man again. Papers and other things were squeezing out from under them, spilling off the desk. Some of it crumpled as Paolo writhed under Zlatan. Some of it thumped on Zlatan’s feet. Some of it ripped against his hands as he ripped through their clothing, rough and fast. A sheet of paper flew up by Zlatan’s ear, its rustling as loud as a gunshot, and Zlatan slapped it away. His arm hit something and he grabbed it and it was Paolo’s knee, still covered in linen. Zlatan tore off the cloth and smashed down the knee, and only then realized he’d torn his own shirt. Paolo’s trousers were already on the floor, getting under his shoes.

One of Zlatan’s feet slipped and he fell heavily onto his elbow. His mouth dragged down Paolo’s chest, the upper lip riding up so he scored the other man with his teeth. Paolo arched and then twisted to the side, his arm going out. He banged some drawers till Zlatan got himself up and off, and yanked Paolo’s arm back where it was supposed to be. Then Zlatan got in the drawer himself but he couldn’t see into it and he kept pulling out the wrong bottles. He threw one against the wall and the sound of it shattering made Paolo gasp.

Finally Zlatan went and looked, and found what he wanted. Paolo snarled and Zlatan jerked his head around. Paolo’s mouth went over Zlatan’s ear, then down Zlatan’s neck. He slammed his knee into Zlatan’s side so Zlatan almost fell that way; the only thing that saved him was Paolo hauling him up by a handful of shirt. He rode the pull and then bit Paolo’s shoulder to put the other man down again. And then he held him there and fucked him. Paolo kept sliding away from Zlatan and Zlatan had to get one knee and then the other up onto the desk. They fucked damn near across the whole desk before Zlatan finally got a grip on the side, and could concentrate on just screwing Paolo till the man couldn’t snarl at him, couldn’t even inhale anymore. Couldn’t do anything but whip around in the middle of his fucking folders, his eyes wide open but unseeing, his wrists twisting under Zlatan’s hands. A damn sight better than that painting.

It wasn’t much easier to stay on the desk when they weren’t fucking. Zlatan’s left foot couldn’t seem to find any solid place to lie and every time they moved, something under them would shift dangerously. “I’m buying you a new desk,” Zlatan said.

“Mmm.” Paolo turned his head and looked at Zlatan. Then he closed his eyes. He tipped his chin back till a bone in his neck popped, breathed in deeply, and then relaxed back. His eyes opened, clear and steady. “He opted for the wall.”

Zlatan pursed his lips a few times. He dropped onto his elbow and felt himself start to slide towards the edge, and heaved himself back onto Paolo. Some hair flopped into the way and Zlatan shoved it off. Then he arched a brow at Paolo. “Well, you feel better about that now?”

Paolo breathed out. He looked at Zlatan a little longer. Then he lowered his gaze to something on Zlatan’s chin: a scrape that he touched a moment later with his fingertip. “Hmm.”

“I don’t know what he was thinking. I thought it was me. You thought that.” Zlatan turned his head to let Paolo trace the whole scrape, then turned it back to catch Paolo’s finger in his mouth. He swirled his tongue out over the nail before letting it go. “Unless he thinks bothering you like that was going to annoy me into dropping you.”

“I don’t think that that was the idea,” Paolo said slowly. He thought about something. His head wobbled against the crushed papers. Then he frowned and looked to the side, at the rest of the desk. His brow creased even more and he seemed about to remark on the mess, but then he only sighed.

“Did you like it?” Zlatan asked after a moment.

Paolo turned sharply back. His eyes had narrowed but their sweep took in Zlatan’s whole face. He had his hand on Zlatan’s shoulder and it curled up, then flexed its knuckles into Zlatan and then slowly uncurled. He tipped his head. “I’m not sure whether I like him better for it, or whether I want you to kill him.”

Zlatan let out a short laugh. “He makes me feel like that a lot. Well, he did.”

“Did he?” Paolo said, brows rising. Then he moved his elbows back. He wiggled a little up the desk before levering himself up. “Does he?”

“Did he say anything about why he’s staying, or what he’s thinking he’s going to do now?” Zlatan asked. He slithered back till his knee went off the edge, then paused to pick a pen out of his trousers. Then he put his feet on the floor and got off the desk.

Paolo made an odd, half-stifled grunt. When Zlatan looked back at him, he had one leg off the desk and the other tucked under him. He flipped half his shirt out and glanced down the missing places where the buttons should have been, then shook his head. Then he noticed Zlatan looking at him and raised his head. His eyes were a cool, smooth green, like the glass of a liquor bottle.

“He said if you wanted to know that, you could ask him yourself.” Before Zlatan could say anything, Paolo lifted his hand. His palm faced Zlatan while he continued to take stock of his clothing. “I said I wanted to know for myself as well as for you, and he told me that in that case, he was staying because he liked the way I handled things, and he respected what I’d done since I met you. He could help with that. Handling things. That’s what he said to me. I suppose…I suppose he would help.”

The hand lowered and Paolo looked at Zlatan over it. His eyes had warmed a little, the bar lights shining through the back of the bottle. He moved his hand back up and to his head, still looking at Zlatan. He stroked some hair back behind his ear.

“I’ll talk to him. I’ll try again, anyway. Bastard never will just say it the first time around,” Zlatan finally said. He pulled his trousers up. They were wrinkled but still in one piece. His belt was even still in the loops and he tugged that tight around his waist. He glanced back at Paolo. “I don’t have any more rings, you know.”

“I don’t think you need another ring. Not for him.” Paolo got off the desk. He moved lightly enough but once his feet were on the floor he had to stop and breathe; his head dropped a little, then went back and he looked straight at Zlatan’s half-tense, half-appreciative grin.

Zlatan shifted his weight back and Paolo stepped forward. He put just the fingertips of his right hand down on the desk and let them ride the wood as he went up to Zlatan. Then he lifted his hand and put those fingertips against Zlatan’s chest as he leaned up and forward. His mouth brushed the corner of Zlatan’s mouth for a second; his hair rested against Zlatan’s cheek a little longer.

Then Paolo stood back. He turned and gazed critically at his desk, absently smoothing the rips in his shirt. A sheet suddenly began to drift off and he snatched it out of the air. Then he brought it close and frowned at the stains and crinkles. “I’ll still see you this evening?” he asked.

“Maybe an hour later, but I’ll be back,” Zlatan promised. He lingered, looking over the way Paolo tutted to himself while trying to read that paper. “I don’t know about dinner.”

“I’ll have something put aside in case. Does he like desserts or should I—”

“Box of chocolates’ll do him.” Zlatan leaned over and wrapped his hand around Paolo’s hand. He rubbed his thumb over the ring, then turned around. Then he let go of Paolo. He got his suit-jacket and hat from the chair on his way out.

* * *

The day was nearing mid-afternoon when Nesta finally came around again. He stalked into the room so quickly that Zlatan heard the click of his heel on the wood floor a moment before the door slammed into the wall.

Zlatan put down the rifle he’d been examining and turned around. “You missed the shootout where some idiot almost blew off my head with a tommygun.”

“Oh, really? I’m sorry to hear that. I liked Paolo a lot better after our talk, so I’m absolutely stunned to hear he didn’t feel the same.” Nesta put his hand on the edge of the gun crate and swung himself around to face Zlatan over it. He raised his brows, then sighed and twisted away. The heels of his shoes clicked again when he stopped. He clasped his hands behind his back and looked over another crate. “I hope you’re not too shaken up. That sort of falling-out happens sometimes.”

The cough at Zlatan’s back made him turn, but not Nesta. Zlatan glanced at the other man, then nodded to Camoranesi. “We’ll take them. Compliments to Gigi for only being two weeks late.”

Camoranesi pressed his lips together and looked down. He fumbled with his keyring, then got off one key. It slid between his fingers like a dagger, and he flicked it sideways at Zlatan like that was what it was. Then he turned on his heel and went out.

“They’re nice,” Nesta said. He came back to the open crate and peered into it. His hands were still clasped behind his back. “A little overdone, unless you’re planning to march on the government, but that’s you.”

“Paolo told me about your talk and I fucked him over his desk, and then I had lunch.” Zlatan rubbed at the back of his neck, under his collar. His fingers came away with sweat. He took off his suit-jacket and draped it over one corner of the crate. Then he pulled out his tie-knot and undid the top button of his shirt. He leaned one hip against the crate and frowned at the other crates. His shirt and vest rode up and he smoothed them down, then looked over. “All right, I don’t know why you left. When you went, I thought it was me—and then I really thought about it, and figured out it wasn’t that. But if it wasn’t what we did, and wasn’t what _I_ did, then why’d you go? You’d just gotten a seat on the board—you were all set up, and then…”

Nesta had his mouth open and his eyes narrowed. He inhaled a little, then shut his mouth. His shoulders moved back and forth. He rubbed the back of his hand over his mouth, then ran his fingers through his hair. He blinked a few times. “What did Maldini tell you?”

“He’s got a job title, you know,” Zlatan said. “You were fine using it before.”

“And you still make me want to shoot you,” Nesta snapped. He yanked his hand out of his hair and a few strands came with it. Then he spun around so quick that those strands whirled in his wake. He jerked forward, hissed and abruptly slouched back to put his hands on the crate. His shoulders rose and fell hard when he breathed, and then he took a long breath and they stayed down. “I like him, actually. He’ll probably keep you in one piece. He seems to understand me well enough.”

“He doesn’t have to deal with you when you’ve got a gun in your hand,” Zlatan said dryly. His vest wouldn’t sit where he wanted it to and kept riding up under his arms. He slid one hand into one of its pockets to weigh it down and watched how the wrinkles flattened out. “Why’d you leave?”

Nesta turned around. His chin went up.

“I’m not believing you that you’re going to stay till I find out why you went off in the first place. I never understood that.” Then Zlatan took his hand out of his pocket and pushed off the crate. He went around it to Nesta and hit the man on the shoulder with the backs of his fingers. “I thought I understood you. I thought I finally had some idea of what was going on in that head of yours, and then you fuck off to the _beach_. You were all done, and—”

“I wasn’t done. That was the point. That was why,” Nesta said harshly. He hadn’t moved when Zlatan had hit him but he moved now, throwing back his shoulders. Both hands went up as well, but then his left dropped back to his hip. His right hand hung in the air a moment before twisting awkwardly back to grasp at his shoulder. “Did you ever think about how I got that seat on the board? Do you ever think about how you’ll get yours?”

Zlatan opened his mouth. Then he looked away and down, and glimpsed the crate again. He rested his hands on his hips and settled his weight back on his heels. “If I think about it, which I don’t, because it’s not my decision whether I get one or not—” he heard the snort and looked up sharply “—listen, Sandro, you were away and it didn’t seem to do you any good, but I stayed and I dealt with things, so I don’t think it’s funny to take them seriously. You want to throw that kind of loose talk around, fine, but you haven’t seen Guardiola or Rui Costa lately.”

“No, but I did my homework. I know what those two are taking seriously right now. I just don’t think it’s the real point,” Nesta said. He looked at Zlatan a moment, then smiled. He shifted his weight back at the same time so his teeth flashed out of a shadowy face. “The board, the board. Yes, it’s important, it runs the damn business. But you think that the board is the business? Then you still haven’t learned anything, you cocky shit. The business will be there whether or not the board is—it’s always been there. We’re just the latest ones to take care of it.”

“That’s real philosophical of you. All deep and thoughtful.” Zlatan pretended to mull it over. Then he snorted himself, jerking his chin up at the other man. “I’m sure all the dead bodies along the way will want that in their funeral speech.”

Nesta went stiff, but not because he was taking offense. His eyes went over Zlatan’s face, and then again before they returned to bore into Zlatan’s eyes. Then he let out an abrupt laugh and relaxed. “You did learn something.” He jerked his head dismissively to cut off Zlatan’s remark. “You’re going to get a seat. Larsson will see to that. He will just like Lippi did for me. If anyone stands out against it, even certain high people, he’ll take care of it. That’s how you’ll get it.”

“If it’s about the dead along the way, I’ve no problem with them,” Zlatan said after a moment. “I’ve taken care of enough of them. I think we understand each other.”

“It’s not about them. It’s about the ones who are still alive. The dead aren’t such a problem—we both know that. That’s why you start out dealing with them, in this line of work. But when you get on the board, you’ll have to deal with the living, and then…that’s why I left,” Nesta said, slow and sober. When he was finished he stopped looking at Zlatan. He dragged his hand through his hair again. “It’s not that easy. And I was younger than you are now, and Lippi was in a hurry. Larsson has time. He can afford to let you grow up a little.”

They were the only ones at this time of day in the garage. Outside were two busy streets and the noises from them filtered into the room. A car horn blared loud enough to overcome the muffling of the walls. It made Nesta look sharply over his shoulder. Then he settled back, grimacing.

“He’s waiting, I agree with you. But he’s not waiting for me to learn all about how hard it is to have people matter,” Zlatan eventually said. He grinned at the flash in the other man’s eyes, and kept grinning as he shouldered Nesta aside to get at the top to the crate. He levered that up and dropped it over the rifle after getting his suit-jacket off the crate. Then he turned and headed for the phone in the corner. “I knew that when I showed up. It’s why I’m so good at what I do. I know it matters just as much when someone lives.”

“I’m not jok—”

“It’s why I didn’t shoot you in the face when you showed up again.” Zlatan got the phone off the hook a little roughly. The end of it clanged loudly against the hook so he winced. Then he lifted his head to see the numbers, and dialed for somebody to come get the guns and finish the unpacking. “It was hard when you left. You know, for the first week I wasn’t even sure if you’d _left_ or if someone had gotten you. But I stayed. I stuck it out and I didn’t have to run away to do it.”

The muscles in Nesta’s face pulled so tight that his bones seemed ready to burst out of his skin. He looked down, then up, then away. He swallowed slow and hard. Then he jerked his head to the side twice, and rolled his shoulders back. He took a deep, long breath. “You’re such an ass.”

“I got Paolo because someone wanted to kill him, and I didn’t want to. And it’s not that different now. And people want to kill me, and that’s enough of a hassle by itself without adding the people who want to kill him, too. But I’ll take care of it. All of it,” Zlatan said, hanging up. Then he turned fully around and looked the other man up and down. “I knew what I was doing when I got him. It wasn’t just because I wanted a fuck.”

“You’re an ass because you’re right so much of the time,” Nesta said more slowly. He regarded Zlatan, then smiled. It relaxed his stance. “I can be generous when you deserve it, and you occasionally do.”

Zlatan cocked his head, then smiled himself. He flipped out his suit-jacket, gave it a shake for the wrinkles and then slung it on. “Well, I’ll be generous and not make you say why you came back. I already know why anyway.”

Nesta raised his brows. Then he twisted oddly to his left and something snapped into Zlatan’s jaw. Zlatan stepped back and his foot went out from under him. He threw out his arms as he fell and caught himself on his right hand, dragging in his legs so he could roll back onto his feet quickly. Then he stopped and looked up at Nesta. He touched his jaw and it hurt.

“Yes, I missed you, but that doesn’t mean I want everything back,” Nesta said. He had his right arm out, its fingers loosely curled. He shook his hand once, then frowned and flexed two of his fingers. “You always were a pain.”

Zlatan lashed out with his left leg. His foot struck Nesta on the shin and knocked that out from under the man. Nesta dropped forward and Zlatan cursed, trying to twist out of the way. He got over onto his back and then Nesta’s weight hit him. It was enough to make him fall off his hand onto his forearm, but Zlatan stopped it there. Then he twisted hard. He felt Nesta slide across his back and turned his head but Nesta was there instead of sprawling on the floor behind him. Zlatan jerked his hands around and Nesta got his hands up. They grabbed shirt and head in the same moment, and Zlatan’s push at Nesta’s chest just helped Nesta up to smash their mouths together.

It startled Zlatan. He gasped reflexively and Nesta’s tongue sank straight into his mouth. Nesta threw his leg over Zlatan and got his knees clamped against Zlatan’s ribs, forcing them back onto the floor. He pulled himself up so his weight pushed Zlatan down. Then he bowed over, his head dropping so their foreheads pressed together. His fingers sank deep into Zlatan’s hair. They stroked circles around Zlatan’s temples, then withdrew as Nesta leaned back.

“I just called for someone to come down here,” Zlatan said.

Snorting, the other man cocked his head. “Don’t tell me you’ve grown a sense of what’s proper while I’ve been gone.”

Zlatan grinned. He laid back and watched, and then spoke just as the weight on him shifted. “Don’t tell me you think I’ve forgotten all about what you did.”

After a moment, Sandro pushed himself onto his right arm. He looked at Zlatan again, then lifted his left leg and swung it over Zlatan. Then he got onto his feet. His lips had twisted up and they stayed like that as he replied. “It’s not about that. You stayed and you managed to survive till now, so you haven’t spent much of your time thinking about—”

“You? No, I haven’t,” Zlatan said with a grunt. He got onto his own feet, then straightened out his clothes. Then he put out his arm and tugged at Sandro’s awry collar. He flicked his hand away from the man’s slap at it, and finished the flick with a second tug to pull down Sandro’s shirt. “You haven’t said sorry for going.”

“I don’t have to apologize for that. I needed to go. The board needed me to go. _You_ needed me to go, whether or not you’ll ever know it. If I’d stayed, I would have lost my nerve,” Sandro snapped. His hand went to his side, as if he was going to push his shirt back up. Then he grimaced and merely stepped away from Zlatan. “Back then I wasn’t someone who could sit there and—”

Sandro hissed when Zlatan spun him back by the arm. He threw up his free hand and forced his forearm across Zlatan’s chest, keeping their heads apart. Zlatan laughed in Sandro’s face and forced the arm he did have into Sandro’s side. His grip slipped a little from the wrist to the hand, which he found in a fist. He fitted his fingers over it. “I know you weren’t. You’re still not, even if you’re back. If you were, you’d say sorry without a second thought.”

“And you still want me to say that,” Sandro said after a moment. He curled his lips back from his teeth.

“No. I just wanted to know if you would.” Then Zlatan bent and kissed the man’s teeth. He raised his head and looked into Sandro’s face, and then laughed again. He kissed Sandro’s upper lip and it softened, so he moved his mouth down a little before lifting his head away. “I can sit there. I’m going to. And Paolo, too. If you’d wanted to, then we’d have a problem because we wouldn’t have enough seats. You’d have to sit on the floor.”

The edges of Sandro’s lips twitched. Then he smiled. His fist uncurled and his fingers threaded through the spaces between Zlatan’s fingers. They turned and twisted till he had his hand free for running up Zlatan’s arm to Zlatan’s neck, where he curled it over Zlatan’s collar. “You _are_ happy to have me back,” he said, bending up. His nails suddenly dug hard into Zlatan’s neck. “Good.”

Zlatan wrenched his neck away, then pushed Sandro off. Then he pushed Sandro again so the man’s back hit the wall. Sandro was already knotting his hands in Zlatan’s clothes when Zlatan followed, sliding his fingers back into Sandro’s hair. He used his other hand to feel along the wall till he found the phone again. He told them to wait, hung up and then took off his tie. Sandro took care of his belt.

* * *

Paolo tapped his handful of folders on the table as he sat, then carefully turned them so he could set them down. One moved slightly out of line with the others. He nudged it back in with a knuckle without looking. On the other side, Sandro spun out the chair with a hook of his foot, then dropped into it. He put out his arms to straighten his suit, then let them fall in line with his angular sprawl. The chair put him nearly in profile with the table, but he turned his head to return Paolo’s gaze.

“Usually I bring up any important changes or urgent news. Then we order,” Paolo said after a moment. He folded his hands together on the table, then inclined his head. “Your gun is showing.”

Sandro glanced down at his side. Then he rolled his shoulders and stretched out his arm for the wine-bottle on the table. His suit-jacket slipped open farther to expose more of the gun. “I already went over things for today in the car. When I eat, I like to be able to eat, and leave business at the door. Unless you’ve heard something you haven’t told me yet?” He poured himself a glass, then lifted the bottle with a twist to keep any drops from falling off the rim. He set that to the side and picked up the glass by pinching the stem between his fingers. “If it bothers you that much, you can come over here and do…yes?”

Zlatan took another breath. He rubbed the side of his face. “I’m hungry.”

“Well, we’re in a restaurant,” Sandro remarked. Then he glanced towards Paolo. He put down his glass and sat up to nod towards the other man. “Not an office.”

“I prefer not to be so bound by formality,” Paolo answered in measured tones. His gaze hadn’t moved from Sandro since he’d sat down. He refolded his hands.

Sandro went to reply, then sank reluctantly back when Zlatan cleared his throat. Zlatan rubbed at his face again. “I said, I’m hungry.”

“Fine, we’re eating,” Sandro snapped. Then he sighed and looked at the ceiling. “What? I thought this was how you started things with him.”

Paolo pursed his lips a few times. He unfolded his hands and put their palms flat against the table, then pushed himself back a little. Then he looked at Zlatan with faint bemusement. “Frankly, I thought so too.”

“Well, it is. But I want to eat first,” Zlatan sighed. He refused to look at either of them. “Because I’m—”

“Hungry,” Sandro said with disgust. He grabbed his glass again and drank from it, then set it roughly down on the table. Then he twisted sideways in his chair, so he was facing Zlatan and not Paolo. “What if I’m not hungry? I know Paolo ate already—why don’t you eat, and I can get on with properly getting to know him? You still haven’t really introduced us, but that’s no great loss. I think we can manage without it.”

Zlatan straightened up sharply. “Wait a moment.”

“Oh, you gave him a ring. You didn’t put him in a nunnery.” Sandro got up and went around the table. He used the side opposite of Zlatan and came up on Paolo’s right. Then he turned, just as Paolo was turning to face him, and dropped his hip against the side of Paolo’s chair. He draped his arm over the chair’s top and leaned on it towards Zlatan. “You might be more grown-up now but you’re not any more proper. You never were for manners.”

“Well, good manners aren’t the same as a good life, so I don’t care,” Zlatan said. Then he breathed in carefully. He drummed his fingers against the table, then exhaled. He relaxed.

After a moment, Sandro twisted over to put his other arm up on Paolo’s chair. He glanced down, then looked up. He shook his head to get the hair out of his eyes and smiled at Zlatan. “That’s why I missed you.”

Then he bent over and his head shielded Paolo’s face from Zlatan’s view. Paolo dropped back a little and his right hand rose. It stayed in the air a moment, then went up and closed over the back of Sandro’s head. One of Sandro’s hands slipped down to cup the top of Paolo’s shoulder.

Zlatan exhaled slowly. He glanced at the menu on the table, then reached over. He pushed the menu onto the floor before getting up and going over to the other two.


	8. Number Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Xavi handles business.

Xavi folded up his newspaper and laid it down next to his coffee. Then he picked up his mug and swallowed the last mouthful. He put the mug back on its saucer, took out his money clip and slid out a bill for the waitress.

“She wasn’t that pretty,” Gerard noted. The other man was sprawled out in the seat across from Xavi, his long legs stretching into the aisle. He’d tipped his hat over his face to keep away the sun. It moved a little as he spoke. “Good news?”

“We’re not going to have to ask González for any help with this one.” Xavi pushed himself back from the table. He got his hat and coat, and was nearly to the door before Gerard stirred.

It was a small shop and Gerard knew how to move. He’d overtaken Xavi a step later and gotten the car door open for Xavi. Then he went around the front, glancing towards some loiterers at the corner. He got behind the wheel and started up the engine. Then he looked over his shoulder and cursed: a fruit truck was pulling up beside them, blocking their exit. He rolled the window down and leaned out to make sure that the truck’s driver heard him.

Xavi glanced at his watch. They’d be a little late, but from what he could see, there was nothing to be done about it. They’d have to wait and apologize when they did arrive to the meeting.

He started to lean back and then he grabbed the strap above the window to hold himself in place. Something on the busy sidewalk had caught his eye the wrong way. He straightened up and slid his hand down to the shotgun stowed between the seats, scanning the passersby. It seemed to be the usual neighborhood crowd: mostly laborers and small-time merchants going about preparing for the long day ahead. Here and there a few women hauled bulky canvas bags on their backs, making for the laundries that dotted the streets. On the streetcorner nearest the car, the loiterers had stopped joking around and were engrossed in placing bets with a newly-arrived numbers dealer.

The dealer wore a hat with an eye-catching scarlet feather in it. For a moment Xavi considered whether the feather had been what he’d seen. Then he shook his head, looked around again, and pressed his lips together just as David Silva sloped up onto the runningboard on Xavi’s side. Xavi arched his brows.

Silva grinned. His teeth flashed against his tanned skin. He’d ditched his usual tailored suit for muddy boots and drab brown trousers held up by equally drab suspenders that caught up his over-sized, mud-streaked shirt against his body. His sleeves were rolled up and he had black dirt under his nails. He looked at Xavi through the glass, cocked his head and tapped on the window.

“What—” Gerard started. He whipped around, then blew out his breath. “Jesus. Where did he come from?”

“Is the truck still there?” Xavi asked. He rolled down the window.

Gerard muttered that it was, and it was unloading to boot. He muttered something else, something about the way Silva had handled the informer last week, and then his seat creaked as he turned back around. Silva’s grin widened as he peered over Xavi’s shoulder. Then he swung an arm through the window. Xavi let go of the strap there just a moment before Silva took hold of it; Silva noted that but didn’t lose his smile. “Thought I wouldn’t find you before you took off. Lucky me, you’re late this morning,” Silva said.

“I am sometimes.” Xavi twisted in his seat so his back was to the shotgun. He couldn’t reach it and Silva couldn’t see it. “What’s so important? I thought you were off this week.”

“I am, but Raúl thinks this one’s a rush job. Don’t worry, he’s already picked up my bill.” Silva swiveled close to the car. A man balancing two heavy crates on either shoulder squeezed between him and some piles of trash. Then Silva bent back down and looked in at Xavi. His eyes were brighter than his teeth. “He wanted Guardiola to know—the commissioner’s back in town.”

The commissioners were in and out of town all the time. That was nothing—Xavi straightened up. He’d gone over Silva’s words in his head and the second time he heard the inflection. “How long?”

“Till Thursday. He’s here for his goddaughter. She’s getting married and talked him into coming up,” Silva said. He put his free hand on the bottom of the window and drummed his fingers against the car door. “Raúl has his hands full with the City Hall Gala, but he’ll keep you updated through me or Iker.”

Xavi began to tell Silva how he wanted updates, but a stuttering roar cut him off. He turned around and saw that the fruit truck was pulling away. Then he swung back, but Silva had already left. A long way down the street Xavi could maybe see a dark scruff of hair, but then the crowd closed in on it.

“Where’d he go?” Gerard asked. He restarted the engine and jerked their car out into the road. A chorus of horns met them and he replied with a rude gesture out the window. Then he slipped them into the traffic a little more smoothly. “I hate it when he does that. Can’t believe I ever thought he wasn’t hard enough. Well, what’d he say?”

“We’re going to owe Raúl another favor.” Pep wouldn’t have had a problem with it but Xavi did. It wasn’t that he resented Raúl, or thought the other man would try and cross them. He appreciated the information very much and would pay whatever Raúl asked in return without hesitating. But sometimes he wished he knew how Raúl still managed to dig up things they couldn’t find. He’d sleep better at night if he knew that they already had everything in hand, without relying on somebody else.

Gerard muttered under his breath, then avoided Xavi’s glance. He leaned out the window again as they made a left turn, keeping an eye on some newspaper hawkers who’d wandered off the curb. Then he pulled himself back inside and sprawled into his sigh. “We are?”

“We have to. He said the commissioner’s in town this week,” Xavi said. He shifted in his seat and his hat caught on something. It tilted into his eyes and he took it off, then rubbed the brim between his fingers.

“So? We don’t need to spring anybody from jail, last I checked. And if it’s for Silva, he’s not really our responsibility these days. Not to mention he looks like he can handle—” Gerard looked over again “—oh. _Oh_. Him.”

Xavi nodded. Up ahead of them a car screeched just short of a vendor pushing his cart across the street. The vendor dropped the cart handles and grabbed his hips, screaming at the driver; the driver got out and began to scream back. People on the sidewalk and in other cars and trucks shouted for the fucking idiots to take it out of their way.

“Damn it,” Gerard said. He was craning his head out the window as if he wanted to make a right.

“No, we’re still going to the club,” Xavi said. He touched Gerard’s elbow. When he had the other man’s attention, he gestured to the left. “Keep going the way you were.”

Gerard frowned. Then he took the left, but pulled into the slower lane directly afterward. “Pep’s going to want to know.”

“I know. I’ll call him.” Xavi straightened up. He set his hat back on his head and glanced at his watch. Then he reached into his suit-jacket and pulled at the strap of his gun harness, which had been digging at his left underarm. “He’s not in the office today and we can find him quicker away from there. Anyway, he’s going to want to hear a plan too. The commissioner’s not going anywhere for a few days so we have time to come up with one.”

They ambled along behind a rusty sedan with no bumper on the back. Then Gerard exhaled loudly and swung them back into the passing lane. He jerked the wheel to miss a pothole and didn’t quite do it; the lurch jolted his hat half-off his head. Then he shoved it the rest of the way so the hat flopped onto the shotgun between them.

“Well, you know him best,” Gerard said. “You’d be the one finding him anyway. Did he go down to see Rui Costa again?”

“No. He didn’t say so, at least. He said he wanted to see Zlatan, and then drop in on Andrés before…” Then Xavi snapped his fingers. “Right. I almost forgot to tell you. The sending-off party was moved to ten. Something went wrong with the cake and it’ll be an hour late.”

For another moment Gerard watched Xavi instead of the road. Then he turned reluctantly away. He drummed his fingers against the wheel and Xavi thought he meant to ask something. But instead Gerard let out a laugh. “The cake? See, this is what happens when you don’t do things yourself, Xavi,” he said, plucking his hat from the shotgun muzzle. He flicked it back onto his head; it landed crooked but he didn’t correct the angle. “Poor Pablo. Pastry isn’t his specialty. Poor us, we’re hopeless.”

“It wasn’t Pablo’s fault. He put in the order all right, but the baker’s sugar deliveryman was smuggling on the side and his load was jacked two nights ago,” Xavi said mildly. He stopped watching Gerard. “Pablo rustled up some sugar from somewhere else.”

“Well, good for him. Maybe he’ll turn out all right, after all,” Gerard snorted. Then he grinned at Xavi. “Are you sending him after the sugar man next?”

Xavi allowed himself a smile as he shook his head. “No. That’s you.” He waited till Gerard had gotten all his bad jokes out. “Pablo’s going after the hijackers. He asked. I thought it was about time.”

Gerard snorted again. Then he looked at Xavi a second time and he sobered. “You really mean that. You think—”

“Victor’s going with him. Just to keep an eye, but it’s Pablo’s job. It was his job to get the cake and it’s his job to find out why there was a problem with that. That’s how he’s got to be from now on,” Xavi said deliberately. Then he shrugged. “We might as well find out now if he can do that.”

“If Silva can handle it, I think Pablo can.” Then Gerard sucked in a breath and let it out with a couple choice words. “I’m telling you, Xavi, I’m not looking forward to having Silva in on this. Raúl I don’t mind—he’s got a right to be, I’d say. But Silva wasn’t even around, and he’s a little bit crazy into the bargain. He likes the dirty jobs a little too much.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Xavi said. “I already thought about that.”

* * *

Gerard waited outside with the car while Xavi sat down with the nightclub owner and discussed the next month’s order. The owner was a little behind on his payments and hadn’t explained himself well to their collector, but once he saw Xavi had come himself, the man made haste to make amends. He wasn’t too deep in arrears, it was his first time and he had an explanation, even if it wasn’t that strong, so Xavi let him off with a warning. When Xavi got back to the office, he’d also have the accountants tag the man for close watching over the next six months.

When they were done, Xavi asked for the way to the men’s toilet. He already knew it was in the back and he paused in front of the door, listening for any followers. Then he went on out the back door, only a few steps away, and into the alley behind the club. The next building over was a pawnbroker he knew and he borrowed the man’s phone for a few minutes. Then he went back across the alley and through the club, emerging out on the front sidewalk.

“I guess we’re staying with the schedule?” Gerard asked. He’d been leaning against the car, hands in pockets, but he levered himself off it when he saw Xavi. His hands stayed in his pockets as he strolled back to the driver’s side.

“Till lunch. Then you can just drop me off at the office and do the rest on your own,” Xavi said. “I’ll be busy.”

Gerard had bent his head as he rattled his keys, but now he raised it. He stared at Xavi across the front of the car. “Me?”

“You can take Sergi for company if you want. He could use the experience.” Xavi got out his own keys and unlocked the door on his side. He climbed in, shut the door and then had to laugh at how frantically Gerard scrambled to follow him. “You’ve done it before.”

“I know, but it’s your…well, you’ve got better things to do. Find Pep?” Gerard muttered. He was paying more attention to sorting his keys than to Xavi.

“Yes,” Xavi said.

Gerard nodded, still searching for the car key. He found it and started the car, and then twisted around to watch behind them as he backed out the car. “Great. Good to have that off my chest.”

Xavi was listening, but he didn’t nod. He took a pen and a small notebook from his suit-jacket’s inner pocket and flipped through the pages. Then he made a few notes on one page and ripped out another one. He glanced over the ripped page a second time before he took out his lighter and touched the flame to one corner. He let the ashes fly out the window as Gerard drove on to the next stop.

* * *

At noon Gerard left Xavi on the front steps to the hotel they were currently using. Xavi went inside long enough to have the receptionist call down an accountant, then went back outside. Gerard had already left.

The last time Xavi had eaten had been around six in the morning. He hadn’t ordered anything but coffee at his and Gerard’s mid-morning break. He looked around and spotted a food stand about half a block down. But then the accountant showed up and Xavi had to spend a few moments relaying instructions. When he was done, the accountant went back up and Xavi burned another page of his notebook. Then he headed for the food stand.

Silva was sitting on a bench just behind it, already halfway through his meal. He raised a soiled napkin in greeting, then placidly kept eating while Xavi put in his order and got his food. Then he slid over to make room. He’d changed into clothes more suited for the neighborhood, but he still didn’t have a suit-jacket and his sleeves, while clean, were rolled up like a dockworker’s.

“I thought I’d get called in by Guardiola,” Silva said through a mouthful.

Xavi had a few bites to quell his stomach pangs so he wasn’t distracted. Then he sat down next to Silva. “He’s busy. I’m on this one.”

“Oh.” Silva flicked a look at Xavi. Then he shrugged. “When do you want to start?”

The food was decent. It’d keep Xavi’s stomach from complaining for a few hours. But there was too much salt and finally he went back to the stand and bought himself a soda. He returned to the bench to find Silva grinning amusedly at him.

“You don’t want a real drink?” Silva asked. He half-twisted to let Xavi glimpse the outline of a hip flask in his pocket.

“No, and you’re going to want to stay off that too. We’re going to be busy,” Xavi muttered through his last mouthful. After swishing soda pop around his mouth, he drank off the rest of his bottle and then got up. He found a trash bag in a nearby alley and tucked his trash into it.

When he came out of the alley, Silva was on his feet with empty hands. The other man swiped the back of a finger over his mouth, then flicked that hand off to the side. Then he gestured around the corner. “I’m parked a block over. You want me to go—”

“No, we’ll walk.” Xavi reached up and loosened his tie. It was a hot day and he was starting to feel sweat running down his back under his shirt. “Do you have his schedule for tonight?”

“Working on it.” Silva slipped into step with Xavi as easy as a dancer shimmying through a crowded nightclub floor. When he’d first showed up, Xavi remembered, he’d been so nervous that the other boys had joked about him having to stumble into a good shot. He didn’t show anything of that now. “It’d be easier if I had a smaller timeframe.”

The mental elegance was still lacking. Even Villa in a complaining mood was less obvious. “Nine-thirty at the latest.”

“Want to make sure you make Iniesta’s party?” Silva remarked, eyes sliding sideways towards Xavi.

They rounded the corner and Xavi immediately saw Silva’s car. The man might be willing to change his wardrobe, but he never drove anything but the flashest model available. And he kept the trimmings so well-shined that likely he did think he could use that as a weapon. “I want to have it done by nine-thirty. I’m not going to think about what comes after nine-thirty till nine-thirty.”

“All right.” A silver blur and a jingle, and then Silva was flipping his keys around his one hand as he got the driver’s door open with the other. “Well, I should get confirmation on his plans in another hour or so. But I’ve already got one lead—that’s where we’re going. It’s his college fraternity’s lodge. He’s apparently going to drop in on some event this afternoon with a donation. Twenty minutes there and back.”

“Fine,” Xavi said.

Twenty-three minutes to drive over there, due to a flooded street. Silva parked them under a great leafy oak and then shuffled impatiently on the sidewalk as Xavi looked around. The lodge was probably the big brick building two blocks down, but right in front of them was a men’s dormitory. It looked a little rundown in the bright summer sun, its paint peeling off in the heat. One of the upper windows had its shade up and Xavi could see part of a globe and a stack of books on a table near the window.

“It’s over there,” Silva finally said, pointing.

Xavi glanced over, then let his gaze drag across Silva’s face. The man looked a little bored, not quite irritated. So he didn’t know he’d parked in front of Pep’s old rooms. “Let’s go.”

They walked down the street. Here and there a few students strolled or sat on the wide green lawns that bordered either side of the road. They didn’t look twice at Xavi but some of them stared at Silva’s sleeves. A whisper about poor cousins floated from one pair.

“Gee, this sure is nicer than anything back home,” Silva drawled loudly. He put his hands in his pockets and arched his shoulders so his mocking smile was thrown into the shade. Once they’d passed the gossiping students, Silva straightened out his shoulders and hooked his chin at a side-door to the lodge. “That’s for the janitor. We’ve got him already—he keeps an account with us for the Sunday races. He can leave the door unlocked. Inside it’s pretty dark and cramped. Hard for somebody to see you.”

“Hard for you to see the way out in a hurry,” Xavi remarked.

Silva was quiet. He was busy trying to make out what had been the one step too far. Xavi left him to it and took a few steps up the lodge’s front walk. He looked at the front façade. Words were carved in the marble over the doors and he knew just enough to know they were Latin and not Greek. He couldn’t read them, but he spent some time memorizing them. Then he turned around and told Silva to take him back to the office. When Silva asked, Xavi said he’d be in touch, and not to schedule anything for the rest of the day.

* * *

Pep had dropped in while Xavi had been gone, but from the sound of it, it’d been a whirlwind visit. He’d had updates on all the current operations, asked after his messages, and sent someone to buy half a dozen cigars and a ham to send to Figo. Then he’d left with only a maybe comment that he’d have to send the same to Rui Costa at this rate.

“I think he meant he’s finally going to okay the job on Deco,” Victor said, handing Xavi a sheet of paper.

It had Xavi’s messages on it. None of them too important except for the one near the bottom that Pep had left. “That’ll make Rui Costa happier. He’s been pushing hard for that, and he’s been a little cold with us for a while now.”

Victor had been with them too long to make that sort of surprised noise. He ducked away from Xavi’s gaze and then undid his tie. When he lifted his chin, Xavi could see two little red marks on the underside where his collar had rubbed. “I thought you liked Deco.”

“I do. But he’s helping to make trouble for us on the coast and we can’t ignore that.” Xavi folded up the paper into quarters and then burned it over a wastebasket with his lighter. “What happened to your tailor?”

“He’s busy with my suit for Andrés’ going-away party,” Victor muttered, avoiding Xavi’s gaze for a different reason. After twisting out the collar-stud, he ripped off the whole collar and then flung it into the wastebasket, sending a cloud of ashes into the air. Then he sighed and peered down at Xavi, his head still up so he could massage his chin. “I ruined my last clean shirt yesterday, and my laundry’s not back yet, and I can’t get a new one from the tailor—”

“So you borrowed one,” Xavi said.

Victor shrugged. “You’d think Busquets would be close to me, but he’s got a chicken’s skinny neck. But you said we should just let Deco go.”

“That was back when he was running, and wasn’t making trouble. Rui Costa wanted him dead then more because of the mess he left than because it was necessary.” He’d liked Baía too, Xavi thought. He would have liked to send something to the family, but Pep had pointed out that Rui Costa might take it as an insult, and that Baía’s careless words had put them into debt with Buffon. That went on Deco’s head too. Then Xavi remembered about Victor’s shirts and frowned. “What were you doing last night?”

“Helping Pablo, like you said,” Victor replied. He chewed on his lip a little. “You sure about him? I know you said go along with whatever he came up with, as long as it didn’t seem suicidal, but…”

Xavi frowned. “Is it?”

“No. No, it’s just…strange. I think it might work.” Victor moved his shoulders uneasily. He dropped his hand and chin, and leaned against a desk. His tie straggled out of his hand like a limp weed. “If it doesn’t, I’ll back out. I told Pablo that and he just nodded, like I was telling him the weather. He doesn’t even look at you. I don’t know about him.”

They’d used Pablo for enough small errands for Xavi to know the man was careful and thorough. He did have an odd way of speaking, holding his head down but not like he would if he was timid or trying to be deferential. Some people found it unnerving, some people thought it was an act. Villa and Silva, who’d recommended him, always treated it as a bit of an inside-joke. Xavi hadn’t spent enough time personally with Pablo to make up his own mind, but he knew enough about Villa and Silva to not take offense right away to it.

“Well, we’ll know in a few hours,” Xavi said. He looked Victor in the eye for a few seconds. Then he looked across the room, at a secretary who’d just entered. She paused and he asked her to find Victor a new collar. “If it goes all right, bring him to the party tonight.”

Victor’s brows leaped. “He doesn’t even know Andrés.”

“He probably knows him by sight.” Xavi gathered up his hat and coat. “If he does well, he’ll be part of the family. And we’re giving Andrés a family send-off. Bring him.”

After a moment, Victor reluctantly assented. He walked Xavi nearly to the door before he tapped Xavi’s shoulder. “Did you want to leave Pep any message?”

“Just that I’ll see him like we planned,” Xavi said after a moment. “If Gerard comes back in, have him make his report to Puyol. And put in an order for a ham and a couple bottles of cava. It’s for Raúl.”

“Anything on the card?” Victor asked. He wanted to ask something else, but he knew Xavi too well.

Xavi drummed his fingers on his hat-brim. Then he shook his head. “Pep will want to write this one himself. Send it all to him when it shows up.”

Victor nodded and then held the door for Xavi. Outside in the hall, Mutu was standing stiffly with his hat in one hand and a large leather satchel in the other. Xavi gestured for the man to come with him and they went downstairs into the hotel’s bar. The bartender looked up at their entrance, but Xavi waved him away. Aside from him, there was no one.

Mutu put the bag on the table and opened it, then tipped one flap towards Xavi so Xavi could see the contents: a small morocco leather case. Xavi reached into the bag and pushed up the case’s lid. Then he let the lid snap down and took out his hand. “All right. Upstairs—”

“No charge,” Mutu said, his Spanish heavily-accented.

Xavi raised his brows.

“Gi—Gianluigi said,” Mutu continued. “For the—”

“Oh. Right. Thank you. Please tell him the same,” Xavi said after a moment. Then he stepped back. He took his hands off the bag but kept them up.

Mutu took the point and nodded. He let Xavi see him out; Xavi didn’t watch him go down the street but did cross into the adjoining lobby to look out its windows. Not a speck of the other man came to sight and Xavi relaxed minutely. He should’ve remembered about that favor they’d done for Buffon.

A footstep behind him made him turn. It was only a guest of the hotel’s crossing the foyer, a tall man who’d thickened about the middle but who still had the stiff posture of a soldier. He turned, noticing Xavi, and Xavi dropped his gaze. The man’s heels clicked on while Xavi closed the bag and slung it over his shoulder. Then he went out into the foyer.

The soldier had paused at the main door to speak with a much younger, much less conservatively-dressed woman. They took no notice of Xavi as he walked to the reception and spoke briefly with the concierge. Then they departed down the front steps, hand-in-hand, just as Xavi reached the door. He paused there and allowed them to take the next cab, then motioned for the doorman’s attention.

“Sir?” the doorman said.

Figo had once told Xavi he’d get used to that sort of thing, in Pep’s presence. Pep hadn’t said anything—in too good of a mood, everything calm and Raúl pouring drinks in the next room—but Xavi still remembered the way Pep had thinned his lips. “Call me a cab,” Xavi said quietly. “Thank you.”

The doorman was already turning away. He’d been trained to not listen past orders, of course, like any good servant.

* * *

Xavi had one afternoon meeting in an uptown warehouse that he had to take himself. He dealt with it and then phoned the office from the overseer’s phone to check with Victor. Pablo and Gerard had both shown up, and Pablo’s nerves at least seemed untroubled. Gerard wanted to talk about some issue with a distributor but had said it could wait. He’d also asked after Pep, and Victor had told him the same thing that he’d told Xavi.

“Busy?” Silva asked, walking in. He’d changed again, into a proper Sunday suit. The sunlight on his hair even betrayed a few damp locks.

“No. I’m done for the day.” When the other man was close enough, Xavi tossed Silva the bag Mutu had brought. Then he put the earpiece back on its hook and picked up his suit-jacket from a nearby table. He spread it with his hand, then slung it over his shoulder. It’d only gotten hotter and they had something of a walk ahead of them.

By then Silva had eyed Xavi and made up his mind to risk taking a look. He didn’t take the box out of the bag. He looked at its contents for a long moment, his head tilted so Xavi couldn’t see his face. Then there was a muffled snap and Silva took his hand out of the bag. He hitched the strap over his shoulder.

“When is he supposed to get to the lodge?” Xavi asked.

“A half-hour before this dinner starts.” Silva stood back with his shoulders hunched. His hand played up and down the strap. “I got one of the staff to keep an eye out, but I guess you’re not going to pay me back for that.”

Xavi tidied up a few things on the overseer’s desk and then gestured towards the door. He let Silva go out ahead of him and Silva edged sideways into the hall, eyes still on Xavi.

“You did the work, you’ll get paid,” Xavi said. He went a few paces, watching Silva watch him. “I’m not bringing you along to kill you.”

Silva blinked. Then he half-swiveled so he was facing forward. He laughed and put a hand to the back of his neck, then moved it to his shoulder to pull up the bag strap. “No, not with what’s in that box there. But you didn’t like me earlier, and you don’t need me now.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to come if I wasn’t going to use you.” Xavi spotted the overseer. The man started to come to them but stopped when Xavi pitched him the office key. Then Xavi turned back to Silva, who was looking on with a different kind of wariness now. “You brought a car—”

“Out front,” Silva muttered. They went on till they’d reached the outside door. Then Silva stopped and stared at Xavi’s shoes. “I’m not with Raúl or against Guardiola. I don’t go wherever David does.”

A slight laugh escaped Xavi. He put out his arm. Silva didn’t move out of the way. So Xavi pushed his arm to the side and made Silva move, and then opened the door. The full force of the afternoon’s humid heat struck him, like a slap by a wet hand, and he stood there for a moment to take it. Then he stepped aside for Silva.

“I don’t know what David’s doing these days,” Silva said, abrupt enough to be a true confession. He moved his shoulders awkwardly as they went through the door. “I’m still friendly with him but these days if you want to know—”

“Then I’d talk to Villa. It’s not about Raúl or Pep. I think they can see to themselves without my help,” Xavi said. He noted the quick quirk of Silva’s mouth and let the door go, so it shut itself behind them. “It’s about you and who you think you know.”

Silva dropped his eyes to the floor and ruffled his hair. “I only started a year ago. I haven’t even met half of your people.”

“I hear you still make your way around,” Xavi said dryly. He let Silva go down the steps to the car and unlock the doors.

The _snick_ of the key in the door turned into a rasp. Then Silva pulled open the door. He moved back to swing it past him and his head turned so he almost glanced at Xavi. He let go of the door and ducked inside the front seat, then withdrew with a hat in his hand. He put the hat on the top of the car before bending down again to put the bag in the backseat.

When he was done fussing, he got into the passenger side and slid across till he was behind the wheel. He did look at Xavi then but the bright sunlight outside made the inside of the car look as dark as a cave. Silva’s face was nothing but an oval patch with a pair of glimmers about the middle of it.

Xavi put his foot on the running board and Silva began to say something. He stopped when Xavi didn’t get inside. Instead Xavi stood straight up and looked at the top of the car, so polished that he could see his reflection in it. Half of his face was cut off by Silva’s hat.

He picked up the hat and then leaned down. Silva had stretched across the seat to see what Xavi was doing and Xavi had to wait for the other man to move aside. Then he got in. He shut the door and handed Silva his hat.

Silva didn’t put it on. He tipped his free hand into the hat while he twisted the key in the ignition. Then he flicked his wrist and sent the hat onto the dash just as he pulled the car away from the curb.

“I just need help once in a while,” he said. He looked straight ahead. His hands were hooked easily over the wheel, his elbows slightly bent. “You want me to do something, I want to make sure I can do it. I know you could give me the men if I asked, but sometimes it looks better for everybody if I don’t ask. And that saves you a lot of trouble too.”

Xavi folded his suit-jacket over his lap, neat so it wouldn’t wrinkle. Then he put his hat on top of it. He rested his arms against the window and against his side. “Nobody has a problem with that. You and your crew are good workers and we’re not going to tell you how to go about your business.” 

“Then I don’t know—” Silva started.

“It’s your crew,” Xavi said again. “Not ours. We’re not expecting you to side with anyone. We’re just expecting you to do as you do.”

Silva was bright enough. He pressed his lips together. His shoulders lifted in a hunch, then rolled loose one after the other. Then he sighed and looked at Xavi. “It’s not my fault I only came here a year ago. You can’t help where you’re born, or who’s around when that happens.”

“It’s not about either of those things.” Xavi leaned back in his seat and watched the passing scenery. In a day, Andrés and he wouldn’t be seeing the same things, he thought. “It’s about who you think you know.”

“Like you said before,” Silva muttered, a little impatient. He was bright but still young, for all his talents.

They drove on towards the campus. The traffic wasn’t as thick at this time of day and neither were its interruptions. It wasn’t long before the tall towers began to thin out and let a little green here and there peek out. Then the towers shrank to shorter three- and four-story buildings, with broad lawns before them and holdover ornamentation from an older era. It’d been a long time since Xavi had come to this side of town, and here he was twice in a single day. And it was oddly painful, seeing so much green. It was like going home.

He should volunteer for a job up north soon, Xavi thought. That or take a day trip in the country to check on the rural distilleries. That’d have to fix it. He wasn’t going across the sea to study with Andrés, after all. He had to work.

“I don’t know what you’re thinking,” Silva abruptly said. He slowed the car to little more than a crawl, looking at Xavi. His breath caught a little on the last word. Then he inhaled and grinned. He relaxed. This was his vacation, enough for his type. “So? What’s to do?”

“Just pull up where there’s some shade. You can stay with the car, and pick me up out front when I’m done.” Xavi picked up his hat and coat. He put his hat on his head; it landed crookedly but for the moment he left it so he could shake out his suit-jacket. “And after that we’re going to pick up Pablo and Victor.”

Silva whistled lowly. “Pablo’s doing it in the middle of the afternoon? He’s going to want a drink afterward.”

“You’d know. You did the same thing,” Xavi said. He looked at Silva and Silva grinned again. Xavi tossed his coat over his head and behind him, and then pulled the sleeves down his head. He snorted. “You can take him around after the party for that. I don’t want to see either of you for the rest of the night.”

“No problem doing that,” Silva said happily. He threaded the car down a narrow sidestreet and into a space under a large willow. The wispy branches rasped over the top of the car; Silva looked up with a grimace, then over his shoulder as he checked the back end. Then he cut the engine. He looked at Xavi again, a little more seriously. “You sure you want me to stay in the car?”

“I’ll be about fifteen minutes.” Xavi tweaked his collar straight.

Silva had a cool gaze on him. “What if you’re late?”

“It’ll be fifteen,” Xavi said. He adjusted his hat. “Unless you were wrong about when he’ll be here?”

“No,” Silva said after a moment, reluctantly. His eyes ran over Xavi. Then he folded his arms over his chest and slouched back into his seat. He put one hand back out to hang his fingers off the wheel. “All right. See you then.”

Xavi didn’t reply as he got out of the car. He took the bag with him.

* * *

The commissioner seemed to think Xavi was one of the lodge members. He looked over when Xavi, hat in hand, stepped into the room. Then he grunted and turned back to the paper he was reading. It was a single sheet, printed on one side. The light coming through the window behind the man was bright enough to show the shadows of handwritten script on the other side of the page. He was reading that side. His speech, probably.

Xavi went up to the desk and set the bag on it. He heard the man grunt again and the chair creak but he didn’t look up. He opened the bag, lifted out the box and then pushed it away from him.

“What’s this?” the man said.

Xavi merely gestured.

“And who are you?” the commissioner asked. But he was already sitting up. He frowned at Xavi as he put out his hand.

When he lifted the box’s lid, his eyes were still on Xavi. Then they dropped to the box. They lingered there for a moment before leaping back to Xavi. A shudder went through the man. He slapped the lid down and then shoved himself to his feet. His chair went backwards into the wall. The drapes around the window behind him rustled.

“Who the hell are you?” the man asked again. His voice had dropped to a hoarse whisper.

Xavi bundled up the bag in his hands. “You’re not wanted here,” he said calmly. “You said yourself, it’s only enough for you or—”

“—or.” It was going to be a question but halfway through the man remembered. He looked hard at Xavi. Then he growled wordlessly. His arm shot out and he snatched up the box.

“You can have it. There’s more than that,” Xavi said. He half-turned, letting his eyes go from the man to the racks of rifles on the wall. Some of them looked as if they dated back to the founding days of the city. They were well-cared for, as well as Silva’s car.

The commissioner laughed harshly. “Blackmail? A pack of lies bought up with dirty money? I recognize you now—you’re one of Guardiola’s whelps. You don’t have the clean hands to point a finger at me, you know. I did what I should have and you can’t get me for that. A crime is a crime, and crimes deserve punishment.”

“They do.” Xavi looked back at him. Then he turned completely around and headed for the door. He heard one step towards him and paused. No others followed and he started walking again. “And honorable men know what has to be done with criminals,” he said as he went into the hall.

He shut the door behind him. The hall was empty but Xavi could hear some voices nearing him. He determined the direction and then walked the opposite way. The staff member Silva had paid should still be keeping a watch at the back door, so Xavi made his way towards the front. Once he was a sufficient distance away, he slipped into the main hall, which was beginning to fill up with students and faculty. It was easy enough to work his way through them, occasionally offering a neutral greeting. He had only been inside twice, both times today, but he’d long since memorized the layout. He moved like he was supposed to be there and no one saw any differently.

Just as Xavi stepped onto the front porch, he heard a muffled cracking sound. It was a little out of place but was not loud enough to make much headway through the noise of people’s chatter. Some turned towards it, some asked if others had heard. Some continued talking without a sign that they’d heard anything.

Xavi went down the steps. He turned right at the sidewalk and a few steps later, Silva had driven up. Silva pushed open the door and Xavi got into the car.

* * *

At the office Victor was entertaining a small knot with a dramatic rendition of how it’d gone. Silva lingered there to listen but Xavi headed further back till he found Pablo in the men’s toilet. A cloth bag was at his feet and he was just putting the soap back in its dish. He was missing his collar.

“Backsplash?” Xavi asked.

Pablo didn’t start like most. When he was surprised he went still for a moment, and then he would turn to see. He looked calm. He reached back to the sink for his towel as he answered Xavi. “A little. Just my tie and my collar, but it’s a dress-up event tonight so I wanted to neaten up,” he said, wiping water off his chin.

“You look all right.” Xavi glanced around and found the new collar sitting on a stack of hand-towels. He handed it to Pablo. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Pablo said after a moment. He kept looking at Xavi as his expression slowly opened up. His lips didn’t curl much into the smile but they did lift to show some teeth. “Thanks. So that’s…it.”

“I asked Silva to show you around a little after the party. Your tab should already be up, but if it’s not, just call me,” Xavi said. He clapped Pablo on the shoulder, then ruffled his hair on the step back. “And I’ll see you on Monday.”

Pablo called back another thank you. He started to ask about Monday too, but Silva had caught up to them and came in then, and immediately asked his own questions. Xavi left them to it.

He headed for his own office, but he hadn’t gotten farther than the elevator when it opened to show Gerard leaning inside. “Pep wants to see you,” Gerard said. “Christ, Xavi. I thought you said—”

“He’s angry?” Xavi stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for Pep’s floor before Gerard had even reached for it.

The doors slid silently shut. Gerard pushed himself off the wall and looked hard at Xavi. He opened and shut his mouth a few times. Then he turned away and exhaled sharply. He scratched the side of his face. “I don’t know,” he finally said. “I am. I think. You shouldn’t—you know you should’ve run it past him first. And you told me you’d talk to him.”

“I said I’d tell him. I’m going to, when we get up to his floor,” Xavi said. He took off his hat. Then he looked at Gerard again. “Is that the evening paper?”

Gerard was still looking at Xavi. After a moment his gaze dropped to the paper under his arm. He pressed his lips together, glanced back at Xavi, and then reached for the paper. The elevator came to a stop and its doors opened.

“Never mind. It’s the morning paper that’ll run it.” Xavi walked out.

“I heard from my friend at the _Chronicle_!” Gerard shouted. “The police just showed up there! They’re saying it’s a—”

His voice abruptly muffled as the doors shut on it. Whatever he’d said at the end was unintelligible. Xavi didn’t wait around to waste time figuring it out.

* * *

Pep was looking out the window. His hat was on the floor just inside the door, lying carelessly on its side, but his suit-jacket had been folded neatly in half before it’d been slung crookedly over the back of his desk chair. A bottle of brandy stood on his desk alongside two glasses. One had been filled and drunk. The other was still full.

“Raúl said it was a suicide,” Pep said without turning around. His hands were clasped behind his back. He shifted his fingers around his wrist.

Xavi didn’t bother asking what Pep meant. He went over to the desk, picking up Pep’s hat on the way. He put both his and Pep’s hats down on the desk, then lifted his hands clear. “I didn’t stay to see, but that’s what I thought I heard.”

“He also said he had you told, because he didn’t have my schedule today and he thought you’d be the fastest way to get it to me.” Pep turned his head to the right. His hands unclasped. Then he spun around and clapped his hand on the back of his chair. “He didn’t tell you—”

“No, it was my idea,” Xavi said. He had to drop his gaze. Even so, he could feel the weight of Pep’s stare on him. He picked free one of his cuff-links before realizing it and nearly lost the backing on the floor. He pinched the cuff-link back together and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I should have gone to you first.”

“But you didn’t,” Pep said quietly. He moved the chair. When Xavi looked up, Pep was sliding between it and the desk. He paused, his hands flat on the desk. Then he sat down and put his head back. His eyes shut for a moment. “His private life was a disgrace—still is, I believe—but he had valid cause. It wasn’t a railroad trial. I told you that.”

Xavi nodded. He looked at the hats on the desk. The band on Pep’s held his eye and after a moment he realized the color had gone out of fashion two weeks ago. He’d have to ask one of the secretaries to swap it when Pep was busy. “You don’t know what it was like when you were gone,” he said quietly. “It was—we needed you. Figo did what he could, Raúl did what he could, but they weren’t you.”

On the other side of the desk, Pep’s hands curled. When Xavi looked up, Pep was staring hard at him, mouth thin and tight.

“He had you deported but you didn’t stay away. You fought to come back.” It felt like Pep had a hand around Xavi’s throat but somehow Xavi managed to sound stronger. “We fought to get you back. We’ll fight to keep you. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you but I didn’t want to—”

“I didn’t leave willingly,” Pep said. His voice nearly snapped. It was close but he looked away at the end. He chewed on his lip and leaned on his fist, his knuckles whitening and reddening as he rocked his weight. “They sent me away because I was breaking the law and they caught me at it. That’s what you should do, if the law is the right thing and it should be. If I was them, I would have done the same.”

“But if you were them, this would be a different world. This would be somewhere where the law is what it should be,” Xavi continued. He took a breath. “It’s not. So you fought. And so I didn’t want to even think about you leaving again. That’s why I didn’t ask. It’s not—it’s not that I thought you wouldn’t fight again, Pep. But…”

Pep looked back at him, sharply. Then Pep turned away. He lifted his hand to his face so Xavi couldn’t see how his expression changed. He pressed his fingers to his temple and stared out the window again. “I always wanted you to go with Andrés. I could still send you.”

“He should go. I’m proud that he is. But I’m staying here.” A slight chuckle broke out of Xavi and he put his hand to his mouth. Then he took it away and picked up his hat. “You did ask me, because that’s how you do things. But I said—”

“No.” The other man kept looking out the window, but the slope of his shoulders deepened. Then Pep brought his arms back and clasped one hand around the other wrist. It was like when Xavi had come in, only Pep was gripping his wrist so hard that Xavi could see the flesh under it turning red. “Well. Thank you, Xavi. I’ll see you later at the party.”

Xavi stood still for a moment. Then he half-turned. It seemed like he should say something and he opened his mouth, but then Pep twisted one hand and Xavi saw he was wrong about that. So he turned the rest of the way and took a step towards the door.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Pep said abruptly. He didn’t move. “I know you want to, and I’ll respect your choice, but I want you to remember you could be somewhere else. You can always leave. As long as I’m here, Xavi.”

Then he fell silent. After a long look at him, Xavi bowed slightly to Pep’s back. He heard Pep sigh and then he walked out of the room.

* * *

By the time Xavi arrived at the party, it was already at full swing. He spotted Silva at the bar, shoving a drink at an unsteady-looking Pablo. Then Raúl slipped out of the crowd. He was on his way out but stopped to have a few words with Xavi. He didn’t bring up the day’s events, which Xavi took to mean that Pep had already called him.

Gerard was easy enough to spot with how he towered over the rest of the crowd. He had his arm up on something and was leaning away from it to chat with a pretty girl in a peach dress, who kept him from noticing Xavi’s approach till Xavi had nearly reached them. Then he turned, started, and settled slowly back on his heels. A smile flicked on and off his face. The skin around his eyes was drawn tight.

“It’s fine,” Xavi said. He clapped Gerard on the shoulder and smiled at the girl. Then he turned to the man under Gerard’s arm.

Andrés had his arms around Xavi’s neck before Xavi had half-done that. He knocked them back a few steps and sideways, till Xavi’s back came up against the side of the bar. Xavi got his hand on the rail and straightened up, and put his other arm around Andrés’ shoulders.

“They said you were busy with something again,” Andrés said. He rumpled Xavi’s hair as he leaned back, then dropped his hands to Xavi’s shoulders. He was grinning. “I thought of course he’s going to miss my party.”

“Of course not.” Xavi spoke more fiercely than he’d intended to. He swung Andrés away from Gerard and shook his head. “No. I wasn’t going to. I’m sorry I’m late.”

For a moment Andrés looked at him. The smile was gone but Andrés kept his hands on Xavi’s shoulders.

“If you were busy I know you had to be,” Andrés replied slowly. Then he took away one hand. He turned so he could lean against the bar beside Xavi. “I know that, even if I don’t know what it was.”

“Just something for Pep. I wouldn’t worry about it—you’ve got so much to do yourself. Just enjoy the party.” Xavi smiled and dropped his head so he smiled at his feet. He loosened his hold and let his arm ride the hitch of Andrés’ shoulders. “But not too much. Don’t make me carry you to the train station tomorrow.”

“God knows you’ll probably be busy again.” A flinch was already jerking Andrés’ head away when Xavi looked at him. Andrés hunched his shoulders and scratched at his lip with his thumb. The hand he had on Xavi’s shoulder abruptly tightened. His voice thinned to a reedy whisper. “I just wonder—all I’m doing is going off to study and you’re still be here doing—so much.”

“You’re doing just as much,” Xavi said. This time he didn’t worry about his tone. He pulled Andrés into him till Andrés looked up at him. “Don’t think about me. I’m thinking about you, getting out to university. You deserve it. You worked for it. And so did I—I worked for you to go, so don’t think you shouldn’t. I can handle things here. But I want you to go.”

Andrés jerked back, then sank a little under Xavi’s arm. Then he looked away. He ran his hand over the top of his head.

“Don’t be sorry.” Something glittering caught Xavi’s eye and he glanced across the room to see Silva brandishing a magnum of champagne. He had to laugh. “Don’t. It’s not that you’re not good enough for here, that’s not why you’re going.”

“I know.” Then Andrés looked up and the heat in his eyes made Xavi sober. But it didn’t last more than a few seconds; Andrés dropped his head again. “I know. I know I could stay if I wanted. I know I could do it. But I couldn’t…I don’t think…I just don’t think I could sleep with it.”

Xavi watched Andrés rub his mouth again. Then he gazed out at the rest of the room, at the laughing and the flashes of color and the high spirits. “You don’t have to,” he said softly. “You can go. Don’t think of it as second-best.”

“I wish you could go,” Andrés said suddenly, sharply. As sharp as the line of Pep’s back a few hours before. Then he sighed. He shifted and Xavi thought he wanted to leave, but Andrés only brought his arm up and over to hook around Xavi’s neck. “You’ll come visit, won’t you?”

“I will.” They watched the party for a little longer, and then Xavi turned and kissed Andrés on the temple. “Listen, it won’t kill me. Don’t feel sorry for me, all right? I want you to go and I want you to go because it’ll make you happy.”

Andrés bent his head into the kiss. He kept it tilted down. “You’re happy too. Aren’t you?”

“I want to be here,” Xavi said after a moment. He ran two knuckles in a small circle over the top of Andrés’ head. Then he used his arm around Andrés to hug the man again. “I’m going to get a drink. Do you—”

As he turned, Andrés turned. The other man seized Xavi and then buried his face in Xavi’s neck, as if they were already saying their last farewells. Xavi stood still. Then he let out his breath slowly. He put his hands on Andrés’ shoulders and leaned against the other man, while all around them people celebrated.

* * *

“He seemed all right when he got on the train, didn’t he? Just have to hope he doesn’t get sick from the jolting,” Gerard suddenly said, putting down his cup of coffee. He looked at Xavi over the table, then blew out his breath. “All right. I can’t stay mad at you. Now I just want to know what Pep said.”

Xavi looked back. Then he put down his paper and picked up the last piece of his breakfast. “Later. We’ve got to go now. Full schedule today.”

“No detours?” Gerard asked warily.

“Not unless Silva’s outside,” Xavi said. He smiled a little when Gerard leaned back to look out the window. Then he finished off his breakfast, and signaled for the bill.


	9. Number Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zidane drops in on Figo for a short visit.

Luís handed over the bottle with a wry little smile. “Hardly what you’d get for table wine when you’re at home, but the best of my cellar.”

Zinedine cradled it in both hands. The label was discolored and wrinkled and he had to smooth it down with his thumb to read it. Then he put it down on the table for support while he applied a corkscrew to the cork.

“How is the countryside?” Luís asked. He leaned his hip against the table. His eyes drifted towards the beautiful arched windows on the other side of the room. Then he put his hands down on the table behind him. He leaned on them and looked back over his shoulder at Zinedine. “Pretty?”

“I keep telling you to visit.” The cork and the corkscrew went on the table. After pouring a little into a glass, Zinedine swirled the wine under his nose. It had good legs, the dark rivulets clinging to the curve of the glass like a woman’s dress. The wine smelled a little like the air at the back of a fine restaurant, all rich notes but jumbled together as the waiters brought the food out of the kitchen. It needed some time to open up so Zinedine poured about a third of the bottle into a decanter. “We keep a room for you. And the sea isn’t that far away, maybe an hour’s drive. You’d like it.”

Luís laughed. He continued to look at the windows as he started to undo his shirt cuffs. These days he had proper cuff-links, heavy gold set with jet. They matched the stick-pin he took out of his tie next, and glittered beside the stiff white ring of his detached shirt collar. “I remember. I think about it every time I pick up the phone these days.”

“It looks like you’re busy,” Zinedine said after a moment. He stepped back from the table and pulled off his suit-jacket. He folded it over the back of a chair and then rolled his shoulders. These days he could afford the tailoring that made suits sit so well on a man that he barely felt it, but there was still a difference between having it on and having it off. That fraction of a hair’s breadth could count—had used to count, back when Zinedine had had to think about such things. “How are they?”

“Well…” All Luís needed was the wry tilt of his head. But he seemed a little more careful these days. He glanced at Zinedine. “You said you’d already seen Raúl. Rui Costa was sorry he couldn’t be in town this time, and Pep says hello.”

Zinedine nodded. “Please give my greetings to them.”

“Already did,” Luís snorted. He reached out and fingered the glass, the one Zinedine had used to sample the wine. Then he picked it up by the stem and sipped at the wine. He rolled his tongue over in his mouth so it bulged his cheek before he swallowed. “You did ask. It’s nice of you but everyone knows who you do and don’t see yourself.”

“Luís,” Zinedine started.

“No, I’m sorry.” Luís shrugged indifferently, but the shadows across his face shaded differently. He put the glass down and then stared into it. His fingers spread out on either side of the stem, with his thumb overlapping the glass’ base. “You can see whoever you want now.”

The apology wasn’t necessary but Zinedine let it stand. He looked around the room, then at the windows as a flash caught his eye. The headlight of a passing car, most likely, but Zinedine went over to see for himself. He put his fingertips against the window glass and then took them away. They left dark smudges in the light clouding that frosted the glass, and for a few seconds the smudges encircled the silhouette of a man outside.

Then the man turned and strode away, towards a stand of trees at the edge of the road. He was dressed like a gardener but the outline of a gun briefly distorted the hang of his shirt over his back.

“It’s such a lovely garden,” Luís said. He was still across the room, at the table. Where he was standing, he wouldn’t be able to see much more than the bushes directly beneath the windows. Nor would anyone outside be able to make him out. “I’ve finally got it the way I’d like, but I can’t even walk in it…”

“Your Spaniards can’t do something about it?” Zinedine asked, turning back. When the other man started, he inclined his head.

Not an apology that was needed either, said the twist of Luís’ smile. “That’s why Xavi’s out there tonight.” Then Luís picked up the decanter. He used both hands and cradled the wide base as if he was examining a precious jewel. He whiffed the air at the top, then began to pour the wine into their glasses. “It’s a good time to step down, and go live in the country where it’s peaceful, and there’s not much to do. I’d like to visit you.”

He wouldn’t. In a few months Zinedine would visit him in the city again, perhaps. If the winter weather and other things permitted. And then Zinedine would stay in the countryside and for the first time in a long time leave this spring to the others. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“Ah.” The exhale flung itself from Luís like a curse. He set down the decanter roughly enough for it to clink against the table; the wine inside slopped up the slender neck nearly to the rim. Then he snatched up his glass and held it. “Damn it. Look, I can’t say that you can’t go. But—”

“You can’t say you’re going to go either,” Zinedine said. He glanced at the windowpane, where the smudges left by his fingers had almost filled in, and then he went back to the table. “I’m done and you’re not. Don’t feel guilty about it.”

Luís snorted. Then he pulled out a chair and sat in it just as roughly as he’d treated the decanter. His shirt gaped irregularly around his neck, no longer bound by a collar, and his shirt-sleeves flapped against the chair and table. “Raúl said we could look into doing something. It’d be a little—well, it’d cost, but not your bank account.”

“He’d be better off paying someone to help him.” Zinedine took up his glass and drank the wine. It was slightly cooler than the room but a moment on his tongue made it blossom. Gorgeous. “You’d be better off saving it for someone else. It’s fine, Luís. I take all responsibility.”

“I’d hope so. None of us would knock over the governor like that, and over an investigation into Pep,” Luís said. His voice was as affectionate as it was tart. “You don’t even—”

“It wasn’t about Guardiola. That’s not what he—” Zinedine stopped and took a deep breath. Even now, after the cold hounding of the press, he still felt his rage rise when he recollected those words. “Pep’s your friend, Luís.”

The other man nodded, watching Zinedine closely. “Then what was it?”

“It was…it was enough.” After a moment Zinedine turned and looked out the windows again. Another car passed the house and the harsh flash of its headlights over the glass made him close his eyes. In the countryside the road up to his house could barely be called paved, and the last hundred meters was so rough that most parked by the gate and then walked up. “You remember when I shot him?”

Luís answered after a few seconds. He needed the time to understand that Zinedine wasn’t speaking of the governor. “Yes.”

“And I’d known you for all of two days, and I didn’t know if I liked you yet but you helped down at the seashore, and on the boat,” Zinedine said quietly. “I don’t regret what I said, or what I’ve done. But I regret some of what’s happened because of that. I thought it might be payment for all that I’ve been able to do. For winning my seat and then keeping it. I think I’ve been paying too much for those for a while now.”

“I’m sorry,” Luís muttered after a moment. He was, and he was also a little angry. His voice was thick with it.

Zinedine shook his head. “If everybody has their own price, then everyone also has their own cost, Luís. It’s only that I’ve reached mine. I’ll pay for what I’ve done, but I’m tired of it.”

“Is that what the jumped-up boot polisher said to you? Was it about—”

“He said the same thing that the other one said to me,” Zinedine said sharply. Then he turned around and looked at Luís. “Before I shot him. So I hit him. If I’d had a gun I would have shot him too, but I’m glad I didn’t. Because I’ve paid for the other one and that’s the end for me, Luís. It’s not for you, and I think you will be working so long as your friends keep you busy. But I’m done. When you have to stop you have to stop.”

Luís grimaced. He looked away, then back. Then away again as he stood up. His glass came out to touch Zinedine’s before his gaze did. He looked at Zinedine for a while. Then he smiled, his lips closed, his eyes open enough to see what Zinedine was saying. “Well, to your home in the country.” He let his glass slide along the side of Zinedine’s, then abruptly pulled it away and drank from it. “I’ll visit. Maybe in the spring.”

Zinedine smiled. When he drank from his own glass, he looked back at the windows.

“Do you ever…”

“I do. But,” Zinedine said with a sigh. “What happened, happened. Don’t tell me you think it’s unfair. I’m not sorry about him. I wouldn’t take it back. So I have to take what comes of it.”

“I know,” Luís said after a long moment. He was looking at the windows as well. “It’s only that sometimes I think it could have been a different garden that I wanted. Different windows.”

Zinedine finished the wine and then set his glass back on the table. Then he crossed the room and looked out the windows again. In the dark he could make out little but the rough shapes of things. Only plants and trees, and some statuary now; the guard was gone. “It’s beautiful,” he told Luís.

Luís laughed a last time. “Thank you, Zinedine.”

The last unnecessary thing. It was time for Zinedine to leave, but he left it a little longer before it ended, looking out at the garden for his friend.


	10. Number Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A view from across the line.

On Sunday they had the funeral. It was a grey sky, but there was no rain and no wind. The day was unusually warm for the season and once the priest had finished his words Roberto pulled out his collar studs and took off his tie. He stayed till they had filled in the grave, then paid his respects to the widow and walked down to his car. Then he drove around for a few hours. When he did go home, the place was empty. He and his wife had agreed that she’d take the children over to a relative’s house after church, and they wouldn’t return till dinner.

Roberto poured himself a drink. He put the bottle away and carried the glass out to the car, and sat with it in the car in the garage.

* * *

Last Wednesday evening Roberto came into work for the night shift. The day shift had left him notes on two burglaries and a follow-up for a brawl the week before that had broken some shop windows downtown. He traded the burglaries with another detective for a corpse some poor fisherman had netted earlier in the day, picked up his partner and then headed to the morgue.

Diego had had his off-day the day before and the squint in his eye and the crooked knot of his tie told Roberto that he’d squeezed it dry. He grunted a few times in greeting and cadged a cup of water off the secretary as Roberto tracked down the coroner.

“Organized crime, all right,” the coroner said. “Two shots to the back of the head. Speaking of, Simeone, I got something for the dog that bit you if you want it.”

“Thanks,” Diego muttered. He came up and looked over the stiff while the coroner got some bottles off the shelves. “Looks like another dealer trying to strike out on his own.”

The head shots had taken off most of the face when they’d come out, so Roberto couldn’t place the body. But one of the rings in the bag of personals looked familiar. He picked it out and turned it in the ugly white light, then passed it to Diego. “That’s not Guardiola’s seal.”

“No, it’s Nuñez’s,” Diego said. He frowned at the ring, then put it back in the bag. The coroner came back with a handful of pills and Diego took them with a grimaced thanks. He started to swallow them one at a time. “Thought all the old-timers had left town.”

“Maybe one came back for a little revenge.” If he had, it’d already been taken care of, but Roberto would have to ask around for the sake of the paperwork. He pushed the personals back over to the coroner and then steered Diego out the door.

They went down the hall and out onto the street. The street-lights were starting to come on and a mist was rolling in from the river. The smoke from the cigarette Diego lighted made it even hazier. “That’d be stupid. Nuñez isn’t alive anymore.”

“Since when?” Roberto asked. He dug out the keys to their car and unlocked the door. The morning paper was on the seat and he tossed it into the back. Then he stepped away to let Diego get inside. He shut the door and walked around the front, then bought the evening paper from an enterprising newsboy who’d sidled up on that side. Then he got into the car.

Diego refused the offered paper. He rolled down the window and tapped his ash outside as Roberto started up the car. “Since summer. Trust me, life finally caught up to him.”

“It’s a wonder it took the trouble,” Roberto said. “He lost his grip on this town years ago. Last I heard of him, he wasn’t even running a corner candystore.”

“Well, some people have long memories. Your enemy might be begging on his knees, but he’s still your enemy.” The smoke curling around his face softened Diego’s narrowed eyes. He took the paper from Roberto’s lap and stuffed it by the gearshift, then stretched his arms as they headed off into the street. “What else do we have, besides that old-timer back there?”

Roberto laughed. “Who said that? Nuñez? Old hard bastard that he was, if he’d spread the wealth a little more, he might not have lost out to Guardiola.”

“Guardiola.” Diego flicked his cigarette out the window, then turned a thin smile on Roberto. “Two years ago, when Nuñez wanted to come back for his sister’s funeral. What else do we have?”

“Couple interviews, checking on an assault,” Roberto said after a moment. He wasn’t laughing anymore. “We got invited to swing by González’s offices later. He’s making his usual donation to the police widows’ fundraiser dinner.”

“’Tis the season,” Diego grinned. He leaned out the window and called to someone on the sidewalk, then pulled himself in to slouch down the seat till his knees pressed into the dash. The skin around his eyes and mouth didn’t look so tight, and after another moment he pulled up the paper. “I’ll be making my usual contribution to the medical fund. Good old doc knows his business.”

Roberto shook his head. “I don’t know how you do it. You should be back there on the slab with that poor bastard.”

“You can be jealous all you like, but that’s not going to get us some holiday cheer for the Christmas party,” Diego said. He pulled out half the paper and tossed it onto the dashboard, then folded the rest into quarters. A surprised snort escaped him as he raised his brows. “‘Crusader swears he’ll crack down on crime.’ The latest from our soon-to-be mayor.”

“Read the news,” Roberto muttered.

Diego glanced at him, then turned the paper over with exaggerated gestures. He tilted it back and forth, then began to read off the sports headlines.

* * *

On paper the brawl had sounded like another Friday night cocktail of booze and women, but the barman listed as the primary witness claimed a sudden bout of forgetfulness. His statement taken night-of ran to two pages. Roberto reread it while Diego kept grilling the man, then looked up as a movement caught his eye. He saw a woman carrying a handful of mail into the back, touched Diego on the arm and then casually tailed her.

She didn’t see him till she was halfway through opening an office door. He opened it the rest of the way, thanked her over her objections and then pulled out his identification. “Sorry to disturb you. It’s just a routine follow-up on a fight that happened outside your place last Thursday.”

The man sitting at the desk looked bemusedly at the badge. Then he pushed himself back from his desk; the woman abruptly went silent. He stood up and her heels clicked out the door. “I heard your partner out front,” he said. “I wasn’t here that night, but I heard about it from my staff. It was just some stupid kids and we don’t want to make a fuss over it. I already went around to help out my neighbors with those broken windows.”

“Very kind of you,” Roberto said. He glanced over his shoulder at the empty doorway, then took a step forward. “Personally, I don’t think it’s much either, but this is downtown and there’s the national convention in a week. So we’re trying extra hard to see that things like last week get resolved so people can see it’s a safe town.”

The man thought for a moment. Then he sighed and came out from around his desk. He and Roberto went out front and he tossed off a careless greeting to the barman before unlocking the till. The barman regained his memory as quickly as he’d lost it and was happy to look over his statement with Diego and make corrections. In another ten minutes, Roberto and Diego were back in the car.

“He’s some rich man’s kid,” Diego said. “We’ll get him in jail for a few days, maybe scare him straight, but his daddy probably spends more on his suits than what it’ll take to spring him. Don’t know why they made all the fuss. Would’ve cost them less.”

“Daddy’s got a share in the place. Hear his partners aren’t real happy with him right now, though. He provides the accountant and the books looked a bit funny last month,” Roberto replied. Then he handed over Diego’s half in the envelope the bar manager had given him. He tucked his into his inner coat pocket.

Diego was driving now, and gave Roberto a sharp look even though he was making a left. Then he snorted, straightened out the car and just kept them from clipping a parked sedan. “When were you going to tell me?”

“Well, you were still working off the hangover and you looked like you were having fun with that bar monkey,” Roberto said, grinning. He waved off Diego’s disgusted swearing, then looked at his watch. “What are we going to do about John Doe? We still need a story for him, even if he’s already had his book closed.”

“We have to go see González, don’t we?” Diego said.

Roberto glanced at him. “You think he’s going to tell us?”

“He’s the one who’s so worried about the convention looking good. He’ll care the most about getting Doe buried quick, without any headlines.” Diego took his hand off the wheel and fumbled around in his coat, then came out with another cigarette. He pinched it between his lips, then moved his mouth till it was sticking out of the corner. Then he started to search in his coat again.

Before he swerved them into something, Roberto got the spare matches from the glove compartment. He struck one against the dash and held it for Diego, then blew it out. Then he put his arm against the window and watched the smoke twirl up against the glass from the blackened match-head.

“Why the hell is it so important?” Roberto asked after a moment. “It’s just another pack of politicians. They’re all the same. You lose one, you’ve got ten ready to suck up to you.”

It was full dark now, with the passing street-lamps casting shadows that looked as if they’d been cut out with a razor. When they pulled up at a light, a jagged shadow slashed away Diego’s face nearly to the eye, so for a moment it looked like there was nothing between that and the glowing tip of his cigarette. Then they started up again.

“Zidane wasn’t just a politician,” Diego said. One breath of his dragged the ash halfway up the cigarette. Then he pulled that from his mouth and tossed it out the window. He rubbed his finger over his lips. “Anyway, González wants to see us already. Can’t hurt to ask.”

Roberto shrugged. He looked away from the man, at the burnt match in his hand. “You’d know.”

Halfway through his laugh Diego choked. Then he pressed his hand to his mouth. It didn’t soften the racking cough. His shoulders jerked and he looked up, then yanked the car away from the curb it’d nearly climbed. “But you’re right,” he said. His voice was still thin from the coughing. “Politicians are shit. I hated working with them, never want to do that again. Just let me get on the street and see what’s out there, don’t keep me home with paperwork.”

“Here,” Roberto said. He pointed at the men waiting on the front steps of the building ahead of them.

* * *

David Villa was running the front for the day. He grinned when he saw Roberto and gave Roberto a clap on the shoulder. His suits had gotten better, Roberto noticed. The cufflinks had the weight of solid gold against Roberto’s back.

“He’s a little late, but if you want you can go on back and check the goods while you’re waiting,” Villa said.

Diego nodded and started off. Then he stopped. He looked at Roberto but Roberto waved at him to go on. After a moment, Diego shrugged and went down the hall with one of the guards. Roberto gestured apologetically at Villa’s raised brows. “We’re not just here for the donation,” he said. “I need to talk to González for a moment.”

“What about?” Villa’s voice rose. The men behind him didn’t snap out of their current activities, but their attention shifted.

“There’s a body in the morgue we need a story about, that’s all. Not too bad a problem, but we’ve got to file something before we start prepping for the convention,” Roberto said. He looked at Villa for a few moments. “You nervous about something?”

Instead of answering Villa stared back. He’d aged since he’d jumped up from small-time operator to seconding Raúl. Not with wrinkles and white hairs, but with the still way he stood and the hardness of his eyes. He wasn’t someone looking for a game anymore; he was someone running one.

“Not really,” Villa finally said. He relaxed into a tight smile. Then he put his hand out and touched Roberto’s arm, a little like the kid he’d used to be. “Just a few things I’m busy watching. You can talk to Raúl, sure. When he comes in. He should have a minute for that.”

“Thanks.” Roberto fiddled with his hat, then tossed it onto a nearby table. He looked around the room, noting how many faces he recognized. Not a lot these days. Since he’d made senior detective he’d started leaving these trips more to the up-and-comers, wanting to do a little more police work and a little less glad-handing. Some people were all right with only making the rounds, but Roberto liked putting together puzzle pieces. Somebody still had to do that; money greased wheels but made for bad glue. “Mori out of town again?”

Villa blinked, then nodded. The blank face was an improvement but he still wasn’t much at lying. “Visiting a sick relative. You want to see him, it’ll be a week or so.”

“Ouch,” Roberto muttered, looking away. He’d always pegged Morientes for one who’d stick around, but in the last year or so the man had faded quick. Still somebody to reckon with, but Roberto couldn’t blame González for wanting to keep him on ice a little more often. “No, I didn’t. I was just wondering because I haven’t seen him around for a while. Tell him I said hi, all right?”

Villa agreed, and then asked if Roberto wanted a drink. After a moment, Roberto said no but he asked for the washroom instead. If they were going to wait he might as well take care of that in a nice place, since he didn’t know where he and Diego would be driving afterward.

It was _damn_ nice. Marble floors, gold-and-crystal faucets, lighting so bright that they could have staged a revue in it. The towels were in a basket by the sink, and they were fluffier than the imported set Roberto had surprised his wife with on her last birthday. For a moment he wondered if he could slip some out. Then he snorted and put the one he’d used in the empty basket on the other side of the sink. Probably if he asked, González would have a set sent over for free, but Roberto still had a hard time with that sort of exchange. With money he still got to decide how to use it.

Roberto raised his head. He’d heard something. He was tensed up and he didn’t know why, and then the sound came again. It was a muffled kind of crackle and it sent him to the door, swearing. Then he grabbed the handle and ducked under it. He scrabbled at his clothes before getting his hand inside his coat and on his gun. He waited, hissing through his teeth, for the next pause in the gunfire. Then he yanked open the door and threw himself out.

Nobody was in the hall. He edged up it towards the room and all he heard was an eerie quiet, like a building shut-down for the night with the only person in it the one locking up and listening. Halfway down he gave up and broke into a run.

There were two dead bodies in the reception. A bloody swath on the floor ran towards the front door, but across the room one of the doors that’d been closed was hanging open. Roberto went to that instead, and looked down into González’s staring eyes. It was worse than the silence. Roberto respected him but couldn’t say he adored the man, and he’d seen a lot of dead bodies. But not many of them looked as expectant as González did. The man had fought—he had a gun in his hand and it was warm to Roberto’s touch—but he looked as if he’d opened the door and seen Death and sighed.

Villa was out by the elevators, curled up around a body that had its head smashed between the elevator doors. At first Roberto thought the man was still alive, because he was moving, but then Roberto pulled Villa off and realized the movement was because Villa had been leaning against the vibrating doors.

Roberto used the wall to stand up and stared at the gaping bullet-holes in Villa’s chest for a while. Then he heard a noise. He looked up and saw an ashen Diego come into the hall, followed by grim-faced men. “I was in the bathroom,” Roberto said as they trained their guns on him and Diego. He pointed at the corpse in the elevator doors. “I think it was him.”

The shortest one dropped his gun. When one of the others objected, he cut his hand across them. Then he came forward and poked around in the corpse’s clothes till he came up with a wallet. He read it, then signaled to the others. They lowered their guns.

“There’s a note,” the man said, almost laughing. “He says this is revenge for Nuñez. Says we’re ungrateful and betrayed him, and he’ll stand up to us even if no one else will.”

“Jesus Christ in Heaven,” Diego whispered. He wasn’t looking at the bodies or the note. He was looking back into the other room. “ _González_. Jesus Christ.”

“What?” said another of the men. He ran inside, then came back almost fainting. He motioned wildly at their apparent leader. “He’s _dead_. Fuck, Silva, who’s going to tell Mori?”

Roberto looked at Diego but Diego wouldn’t look back. Then Roberto put his hand to his head and glanced down. He flinched at seeing the bodies again and jerked his gaze away. It landed on a glint on the hand of the corpse in the doors. He bent down to look at it and saw the same ring he’d been looking at in the morgue.

“Never mind Mori, he’s out of town. We can keep it from him till we get him back, but someone’s got to tell Guardiola now,” Silva said.

“Listen,” Diego said sharply. He waited till they were all looking at him. “Listen. We didn’t come here till five minutes from now. We parked but we were flirting with the receptionist downstairs, all right? And we’re going to go down and come up, because—”

“Fucking cop coward,” spat one man.

Silva raised his hand. He was looking intently at Diego, who only spared a growl for the heckler without even looking at him. “We called in about a threatening letter,” Silva said. “You were coming to look at it.”

“Got it,” Diego said. Then he spun on his heel and hit the elevator button. When the doors opened he pushed the body out of them with his foot, then stepped into the elevator. He turned and reached for the panel of buttons, then looked at Roberto. “Come on.”

Roberto looked at the body between them, then swore under his breath. He got over it as quick as he could, and then the doors closed and they went down.

* * *

They couldn’t call it in for another hour while Silva moved things out of the office. On the report Roberto wrote down that they’d searched the building for more assassins.

“I don’t think it’s connected to Nuñez at all,” Diego said. He’d gone back to himself after a cup and a half of coffee, and had been the one to let in the police photographer and the beat cops sent to secure the site. He paused to tell one cop to cordon off the rest of the hall, then bent towards Roberto. “You going to be sick?”

Roberto shook his head. “No. No. I was just thinking about how it’s going to sound on the streets, and I didn’t like it much.”

“At least Morientes isn’t in town. Maybe Guardiola will do us a favor and have someone knock him out, and save us the bloodbath.” Diego drank more of his coffee. “Somebody’s using Nuñez as an excuse, and they’ve got balls. Nobody’s fucking gone up against Guardiola himself for years. And then they go straight for González.”

“You think Guardiola will take care of it? Then maybe we don’t have to worry,” Roberto said.

He didn’t have to look at Diego to know how the other man took that. After a moment Diego went out of the room. He spoke to someone outside, then came back in with his cup full and with another cup for Roberto. “Guardiola’s got no political cover,” Diego said curtly. “Zidane’s just retired in disgrace, and anyway the connections always ran through Raúl.”

“What about Figo—”

Diego snorted. “He’s got half his money tied up in Ibrahimović’s operations.”

Roberto looked up sharply. Then he got out of his chair and got out of the way of the photographer, who was snapping photos of González. “You think it’s him?”

“Well, they’re arguing, is all I know. But I figure Maldini to have more sense than that, and he’s the brain trust over there,” Diego said. Then he shrugged and stared at the bloodstains spilling out from under González. “Anyway, Figo doesn’t handle anything more than the local links. He—”

Some commotion in the hall made Diego turn. Then Guardiola was in the doorway. He looked directly at Roberto for a moment and his gaze cut straight through like a bullet. He was dressed nice, expensive suit and shoes shined bright as mirrors, but he didn’t have a coat on and it wasn’t summer anymore. When he looked down Roberto didn’t see anybody standing behind him holding a coat either.

“Sir, you can’t…” started one of the cops. Then he saw who it was and he shut up.

Guardiola didn’t move. He stared at González. He didn’t have any expression on his face and he didn’t move. It got to be hard to look at him because he was so still, Roberto’s eyes would start to hurt and wander on their own.

“How much longer do you need them here?” Guardiola finally asked. He spoke quietly, in a regular voice. His shoulders moved and then he took a step back, and looked up. “I’m leaving someone. When you’re done they’ll take the bodies.”

“They should go to the coroner first, so we can stamp the paperwork,” Diego said. His voice was a little loud, even after Roberto took into account the quietness of the rooms.

“Send me the paperwork and I’ll stamp it.” Then Guardiola turned around. Some lackey of his eased up beside and Roberto heard Guardiola’s voice but Guardiola didn’t stop. He walked out, his back straight and his head up.

It took a few minutes for people to loosen up and start talking again. The photographer grabbed up his gear and nearly walked out without his camera before Roberto caught up to him. Then when Roberto came back, Diego was on the phone and cursing violently at somebody. Diego looked up, then put his hand over the mouthpiece.

“It’s the police commissioner,” Diego said. “Figo’s already been at him. We’re off, got to get the donation and then we’re home. The elite squad’s taking this one.”

“What?” Then Roberto looked back at the bodies on the floor. He scratched at the side of his forehead.

Something pushed into his shoulder, and then Diego reached back and grabbed his arm. The other man dragged him out of the room and down the backstairs. They came out into the backalley where they’d parked. Nobody else was there but there was a small envelope tucked against their car’s hood ornament. Roberto picked that up while Diego checked that the trunk was locked. Then they got in the car; Diego drove.

* * *

“Some Christmas party we’ll have,” Roberto finally offered. He and Diego were seeing out the rest of their shift in the precinct all-purpose room. If something came in they were supposed to take it, but they hadn’t had a call for hours. Everyone was busy throwing everything they had at the González murder.

Diego laughed harshly and lit a fresh cigarette off his current one. Then he stubbed out the butt in the ashtray in front of him. He stared across the table at Roberto. “Don’t take it personally. Figo’s got his head on straight. He had to know Guardiola would run over there and he’d have heard we were on the scene. Last thing Guardiola will want is to have to deal with us again after that. It’s a favor to you and me.”

“I didn’t do anything for Figo to earn it,” Roberto muttered, slouching in his chair. He clasped his hands over his stomach and leaned his head back till he was staring at the cracked ceiling tiles. “It wasn’t us who did it. Guardiola can’t kill us just for being there.”

“No?” Diego said.

Roberto looked over. Then he sat up. He put his arms on the table and leaned on them. “He can’t even go after the real killers, you said.”

“I did.” For a moment Diego’s eyes turned cool and distant. He stared at something that wasn’t in the same room as them, maybe not even in the same day. Then he shrugged and dragged on his cigarette. A lopsided smoke circle slipped from his mouth. “I heard once that Guardiola got into this racket to save González. Some debt González owed to Pérez…back then he and Nuñez were fighting it out.”

“And Guardiola showed up and drove both of them out of town.” Roberto shook his head. “He doesn’t run this city like he’s doing a favor for a friend.”

“Well, it’s been a long time since then,” Diego said. His eyes shifted to Roberto.

After a moment Roberto pushed himself back from the table. He rubbed at his temple. “Who would even have the balls?” he asked. He dug his toe into the floor. “Hey, Cholo, did you ask anybody about our John Doe? I didn’t get a chance. Did they even know about—”

The phone rang. Diego turned around, then glanced at Roberto. Then he got out of his seat, swearing under his breath. His shoe-heels clicked against the floor, it was so quiet in the office.

* * *

“Morientes came back early, I guess,” Diego said.

After the third swallow, the acid crawling up the back of Roberto’s throat finally stayed down. Roberto had seen his fair share of bad scenes, but maybe it was almost being part of one a few hours before that’d left his stomach a little sensitive. He took a few slow breaths. “What the hell is he playing at? This is _Guardiola’s_ joint.”

“Maybe he thinks it’s Guardiola’s fault that González got hit.” Diego glanced over his shoulder, then walked back to the warehouse doors.

Roberto could hear him letting in the back-up for the second time in one night. He kept staring at the open-topped crates with their still-bleeding contents. He’d seen Morientes’ type of scene before, as a matter of fact, and Morientes didn’t usually handle the creative ones. If the bullet-riddled car sticking halfway through the shattered back doors hadn’t said otherwise, Roberto wouldn’t have believed it. But it was hard to make a case against Morientes when the man drove that one flash ride to church at the cathedral in the center of town every Sunday. Morientes wasn’t trying to hide.

“Jesus Christ,” said someone by Roberto. A beat cop, looking like he was going to be sick. When Roberto clapped him on the shoulder, he jerked his head forward and then stumbled off to the side. Then he screamed.

He’d found somebody not in a crate. Roberto dropped on his knees by the bloody curled-up body and tried to find the wounds while Diego shouted for an ambulance. He touched what he thought was a shoulder and saw a flash of metal and had to pin down the knife. Then he saw the face. “Xavi,” he said. “It’s Xavi. Listen, we’re the cops.”

Xavi coughed wetly and squinted up at Roberto through clot-crusted lashes. He grunted and let Roberto take the knife from him.

“Get a fucking doctor already!” Diego was roaring.

“Was it Morientes?” Roberto hissed. “González is already dead, Guardiola knows and—”

“Yes,” Xavi muttered. He put his head back down on the ground and stared at his bloody hand. He was as limp as a doll as Roberto moved him around, trying to stuff pieces of clothing into his still-bleeding wounds. “Yes.”

Roberto breathed in slowly. Then he yanked off his tie and used it to wrap up a bullet-hole in Xavi’s leg. “Where did he go, do you know?”

Xavi looked at him again, then closed his eyes.

“What the hell is going on?” Roberto snapped. He tried to take off his coat and he couldn’t because his hands were shaking too hard. He pressed them against his legs, then jerked off the coat. Then he grabbed Xavi’s knife and started cutting strips out of his coat’s lining. “What the _hell_ is—who is it? Who?”

“I don’t know,” Xavi said. He opened his eyes and looked straight at Roberto and he was lying through his teeth.

“Like hell you don’t. You do and you’re going to let us all go down with you—”

“For God’s sake—” Diego pulled Roberto away, then slapped Roberto when he tried to get back at Xavi. He gave Roberto a shove on the shoulder, staring hard.

After a moment Roberto dropped his eyes. They both looked at the half-torn coat. Then Diego picked up a piece and started tying it around another bullet-hole in Xavi’s arm. Xavi was quiet and watching them both.

“We’re not going down,” Diego muttered. He glanced at Roberto. “We’re not. So calm down, damn it. Somebody…somebody always has to clean up afterwards and do the paperwork and help little old women cross the street. That’s us. So shut up and calm down and go see if the ambulance is coming.”

“You go to hell,” Roberto said. He breathed. “Fuck. I don’t mean that.”

Diego didn’t look up. “Ambulance.”

Roberto went to go see if it was coming.

* * *

When they came out of the hospital dawn was coming, and Roberto realized suddenly that their shift had ended an hour ago. He fiddled with the papers in his hand, makeshift notes of the little that Xavi would tell them without a lawyer around.

“Real pretty, with everything that’s happened,” Diego said.

Roberto kicked a pebble and watched it skip up against a hubcap. “This town is going to burn. It’ll be worse than the old days, before Guardiola consolidated everything.”

All he heard from Diego was the scratchy hiss of a match being lit. Diego smoked but not one right after another, not like he’d been doing all night. They stood on the curb and watched the sun rise over the cars in the parking lot.

“You all right?” Diego asked suddenly. His cheeks hollowed as he pulled on his cigarette, and then he turned to face Roberto. “You’re taking this hard.”

“Well, how am I supposed to take it? You tell me that it’s not going to be that bad,” Roberto snapped. He glanced down at the papers in his hand, then started to fold them up. He was going home first, and having a decent meal. See his family. When his shift came around again he could type them up, maybe start thinking about what he was going to do with them, if anything. “You’d know.”

Diego laughed harshly. The smoke streamed out of his nose and curled back around his head, wrapping it up like some sort of mummy. Then he waved it away with his hand. He dropped his cigarette on the ground and crushed it with his shoe. “I guess I would.” He looked at Roberto again. “Don’t go being jealous of me now. You did fine. You got your promotion and your nice house in a good neighborhood, and anyone sneers at you, you can point to a good long record. You close a lot of cases.”

“We’re not closing this one,” Roberto said slowly.

“Hell, this kind of case, it never gets closed. Just moved on to the next one to ride into town,” Diego said. He breathed in as if he was dragging on another cigarette, but he hadn’t gotten one out. He stared out at the red and orange sky. “You really want to know what I think?”

Roberto nodded.

After a moment, Diego slewed around on his left foot. He glanced back at the hospital doors, then hooked his thumb at the lot. “Listen, I need a piss. Then I’ll drop you off on the way. We haven’t gotten a call for the car, we can take the long way back.”

Roberto shrugged. He looked again at the other man as Diego went up the walk, but not for any particular reason. Then he stared out at the cars. The world was shaking and he realized it was because he was jerking up and down on his foot. He stopped and looked down on the notes in his hand. He stuffed them into a pocket, then took them back out. Then he unfolded them and smoothed them out. Xavi hadn’t said a damn thing more about what had happened to him, but he’d admitted he’d already heard about González. He hadn’t looked surprised when Roberto had brought up the Doe in the morgue either, though Roberto didn’t know Xavi well enough to know whether that meant anything.

But they all knew what was going on. Roberto hadn’t been green behind the ears even when he’d signed up for the force. He’d had a good idea of what went around and what didn’t, and what ended up in the harbor. If he’d wanted to, he could walked down the street from the precinct, where the local craps players gathered, and have had a penthouse suite at the richest hotel in town.

Being in the police came with better privileges, was how Robert had figured it at the time. He’d liked the looks of those kinds of suites, but he’d worked in one of those hotels and had seen how often people moved in and then got moved out. He didn’t mind moving but he didn’t ever want to be moved out.

It’d been a while for a run to the toilet, Roberto thought. He looked at his watch, then over his shoulder. Then he walked up to the hospital doors. On the way in, a couple and a woman who looked more than a little hung-over beat him to the doors. He held them for the woman, then nodded at a man who came running up from behind with a purse and woman’s coat in his hands. Then Roberto went to the bathroom.

Diego was sprawled out in front of the sinks. The way he’d fallen, he’d had time to kneel down. Roberto held onto the door for a while. Then a noise made him jump and he grabbed for his gun. But it’d come from outside, and he could see into all of the stalls because their doors were hanging open. The place was empty.

Something got under Roberto’s foot as he stumbled out. He bent and scooped it up, and then cursed as he saw the ring.

* * *

John Doe’s personals bag lay on Roberto’s desk. It looked just like it had before, except it didn’t have the ring in it. That was in a different bag, labeled with the name of the hospital and lying on top of the coroner’s logbook, which was next to Doe’s things. Guardiola had signed his own name when he’d come down to visit, checking González and Villa’s bodies through and back out himself and then taking a look at Doe. He’d signed out about an hour and a half before Diego had taken a shot to the head.

“Simeone was a fucking cop, all right? I don’t care how dirty he was, he was a cop and you don’t fucking kill cops,” the police commissioner said. The last time Roberto had seen him, the man had been using fifty-cent words in a high-class accent at some fundraiser dinner.

Figo looked like he hadn’t slept in a while, and his tie was crooked. He still kept his voice down better. “I understand your concern. No one wants to see this turn into open warfare.”

“Well, isn’t that what we’ve got already?” the commissioner snapped.

“I don’t know.” Figo rubbed at his left eye, then sighed. He dropped his hand and looked at the commissioner. His eyes were half-closed and sleepy. “Do we have that yet?”

The commissioner stared back. Then he put up his fist nearly into Figo’s nose. “Don’t _fucking_ threaten me, you fucking jumped-up goon. Your friend González is lying in the morgue—”

“He’s not,” Roberto muttered, looking at the lump the ring made in the cloth bag. He felt them both look at him, and heard the commissioner swear at him, but he didn’t look up. “Look, if you need my office for yourselves, just let me know. I can take all this paperwork outside.”

“I don’t think we need it,” Figo said. He rubbed at his face again and looked at the commissioner. Then he slipped both hands into his trouser pockets. He watched the commissioner bluster a little more and then go. His expression didn’t wake up any till he looked at Roberto. “You’re Diego’s partner?”

Roberto shrugged. “For the last three years.”

“I’m sorry,” Figo said. For a while he stood on the other side of Roberto’s desk. Then he sighed and looked at his watch. He frowned and checked it against the clock on the wall. “Well, thank you for—”

“Diego never worked for Nuñez,” Roberto said.

Figo paused halfway into his turn away from Roberto. “He never worked against him either. He sat that one out. Smart thing to do.”

“He was sitting this one out too. I talked to him—he was talking about the transfer to the north side he’d put in, and not having to crawl around downtown cleaning up after the drunks anymore.” Roberto flicked the ring. The bag skittered over the logbook and fell down onto the desk on the other side. “It wasn’t his fault what happened to González.”

“He wasn’t sitting it out,” Figo said. He looked steadily at Roberto. It wasn’t as hard or as pointed as Guardiola’s gaze but it stuck closer to the bone. “John Doe there was his work. He said he’d gotten all of them and he knew he didn’t.”

“You’re a fucking liar.” Then Roberto got to his feet. He had to press his hands to his desk to keep from doing more than that. “Then why would he go—”

Figo shrugged. “Hedging his bets. He’s there, he helps turn the tide if things go wrong. We know you weren’t in on it. You were cover, that’s all, and it didn’t go so that he had to take you out so you don’t have anything to worry about. Just sit out till it’s over.”

“You don’t have cover now,” Roberto said after a moment. He swallowed hard. His knuckles turned white against the desk. “How the hell do you know which way it’s going to go? And after this stunt that you just pulled—even if it’s true, Diego was a _cop_ —”

“He had the badge but that’s all. That’s the only difference between you and us,” Figo snapped. He turned around and walked towards the door. Then he stopped again, with his hand on the knob. He pointed at the things on Roberto’s desk. “Get rid of those.”

Then he went out. He let the door shut behind him but he didn’t pull it with enough force to get it all the way into the frame. When Roberto couldn’t hear Figo’s footsteps anymore, he went across the room and yanked the door into the frame. Then he put his hands up on the door and his forehead against it. He breathed in once, hard, and then more slowly. Then he put his hand over his eyes. When his eyes started to hurt, he pressed his fingers down on them.

* * *

By Sunday morning Morientes had turned up. Three bullets while he was sleeping on a couch in a club’s backroom. The first one had gone straight through his head so the other two hadn’t been necessary. Xavi had checked himself out of the hospital on Friday and into a hotel suite, and Buffon and Rui Costa had both stopped by to see him. Giuly hadn’t, but three of his men had gotten caught dumping two crates full of limbs into the harbor so Roberto guessed he was still in Guardiola’s good graces.

The convention committee was talking wild to the papers about bringing in the federals and keeping crime from taking over the town. Most of the beat cops were jumping at any chance to bring in somebody too, or going on about a special memorial to Diego. The older detectives were quiet but they dropped their envelopes into the jar the secretaries had set up outside of Roberto’s office. Before the funeral Roberto emptied it out into a bag. He slipped the bag to Diego’s widow during the eulogies.

He’d been sitting in his car for maybe a half-hour when he saw someone walking around the drive and realized he hadn’t put the door down. He went still and watched them in the rearview mirror till he saw their face and their hands. Then he got what was left of his drink and got out of the car.

“Detective Ayala?” the man said. He had on a grey suit and a grey hat, and a long grey coat that made him look taller than he was. He took off his hat before he took out his badge and let Roberto see it. “My name is Esteban Cambiasso. I’m an agent with—”

“Federal,” Roberto said, looking at the badge. He forked it between his fingers and handed it back.

Cambiasso nodded. “I’m sorry to be calling on the day of your partner’s funeral, but I thought you’d be interested in the business that’s brought me into town. It’s a summons for Josep Guardiola to appear for a hearing.”

“You got a judge around here to give you a warrant?” Roberto asked.

“No, not that kind of hearing,” Cambiasso said. He looked younger without the hat, even though it looked like he could throw away all his combs in a few years. “It’s a hearing before the Senate.”

Roberto laughed. He turned around and looked into his garage. Then he looked back at Cambiasso. He laughed again and poured out his drink on the drive. “What the hell do they want to know?”

“There’s a national convention this week. And a lot of funerals right before.” Cambiasso put his hat back on his head. “Some big people are worried that it’s trying to interfere with the political process. Like I said, I’m sorry I had to call on you today.”

The man took a step away and then turned around. He took another step and Roberto realized he was honestly leaving. Roberto jerked his glass up, remembered he’d emptied it and cursed under his breath. Then he went after Cambiasso. He caught the man by the arm and pulled him to a stop at the end of the drive.

“This summons,” he said. “You going to give it yourself?”

“That’s the idea.” Cambiasso looked at Roberto for a moment, with pale eyes that looked like nothing much. They didn’t give away whether he was worried or overconfident or maybe laughing at Roberto. “When I find him. I hear that’s not that easy a job, but I’m in town till I do it.”

Roberto pulled at the left wing of his collar. Then he took that off and stuffed the stiff band into his pocket. He turned his empty glass around in his hand and watched how the pebbles of the drive distorted through the bottom. “It’s not that hard,” he said. “Let me get my keys. I’ll give you a ride.”

* * *

It was slow going through downtown. They had to pass near the cathedral and a lot of the roads around that were blocked off, even though the procession must’ve already gone through: González was due to be buried an hour ago, and then Villa and Morientes a half-hour after that. The police were supposed to be cooperating for the funerals since nobody took revenge on the dead, but Roberto didn’t see a single beat cop out there and it’d been long enough since Diego’s burial. It didn’t make a difference in how quiet and orderly the streets were.

“Looks like a nice place,” Cambiasso said, leaning against the window. “First time I’ve been up here.”

Roberto glanced at him. “Thinking you’ll be back again?”

After a look over, Cambiasso laughed. He stretched his hand towards the dash, then let it fall to his lap, where his hat was. His hand knocked the hat off onto the gearshift and he picked it up, then began to spin it slowly on his fingers. “I guess that depends on how busy this place gets. It’s been quiet for a few years, but not so much lately. Ibrahimović, for one, he’s been bringing in a lot.”

“A lot of what?” Roberto asked after a moment.

Cambiasso stopped spinning his hat. He looked up through the windshield, at the building where Roberto was going to pull up. Then he put his hat back on his head and straightened his tie. “He’s won the battle overseas,” he said, looking down at the tie. “Now they’re all his partners over there.”

“Well, that’s over there. What about over here?” Roberto snapped. “Who are you with?”

“I’m federal,” Cambiasso said. He gave Roberto a cool glance, then leaned forward. He put his hand on the dash as he craned his neck, staring up at the building’s top. “Guardiola’s in there?”

“You can ask for him.” Roberto pulled up to the curb, right in front of the marble steps. He saw the doorman start from his place at the top, then swivel to call to someone inside. He cut the engine and sat with his hands on the wheel. Then he reached for the door.

A sound from Cambiasso made him pause, but the other man never said anything and so Roberto got out. He locked his door, then came around to the other side. Cambiasso looked him up and down. “You don’t have a piece,” Cambiasso said.

“I was at a funeral. You don’t bring a gun to a funeral,” Roberto snapped.

For a moment those pale eyes of Cambiasso’s said something, and it was that he felt a little sorry for Roberto. He shifted his arm and his coat gaped to show a holster strapped under his arm. Then he reached into his coat. He unstrapped the holster and then stuck it between his door and Roberto so Roberto couldn’t close the door. Then he tossed it onto the seat and stood back. He let Roberto lock the door, then turned and started up the steps.

“I heard you were with Simeone when he got hit,” Cambiasso said.

People around the office said “murdered.” Roberto flinched but he didn’t correct the other man. “He went inside for a piss.”

“It’s usually a funny thing like that,” Cambiasso said. “Funny. Like Guardiola. He let himself get railroaded out last time when he could’ve shot the prosecutor. This time he pays for the convention to come to town and then he shoots a cop himself. It’s like he doesn’t think it matters anymore what he does.”

“Maybe,” Roberto muttered. “Maybe he wants somebody to come after him.”

Cambiasso nodded. They reached the elevator and Cambiasso pressed the button before Roberto could reach for it. Then the man looked up at the dial at the top. “I hear he’s not somebody who likes to be disappointed.”

“Disappointed.” The door opened and the elevator boy stared at them till Roberto shouldered his way inside. Roberto pressed the button and watched the elevator boy silently get out. “Who are you _with_?”

“Does it matter?” Cambiasso asked.

“If I’m going to get shot like Diego—”

“Then why the hell are you in here?” Then Cambiasso grinned. He took off his hat and ran his hand over the pale wisp gracing the top of his head. “You’re not here because you want to get shot.”

Roberto pushed his fist into the side of his leg, staring at the man. Then he looked away. He watched the numbers at the top of the elevator change and he still started when their floor chimed. “I want to know who fucking dumped John Doe in the river,” he said as the doors opened.

“John Doe?” Cambiasso asked.

“Number one-eight-one, fished out last Wednesday morning around two.” Before Roberto could move, Cambiasso cut in front of him. Roberto slipped out as the doors started to close and caught up to the other man. “I want to know.”

It was a short hallway. Nobody was in it but them, but the door at the end was already opened. Cambiasso went up to it and then paused to take off his coat. “Well, I don’t know. I don’t.”

“So I still want to know,” Roberto said. “Are they going to ask that at the hearing?”

For a few moments Cambiasso looked at him. Then he looked down at the coat in his hands. He pulled out his right arm and he had a thin brown envelope in his hand. He put the envelope between his teeth and crooked his left arm, and folded the coat over it. Then he took the envelope in his right hand again and reached for the half-open door. “No, but you can start,” he said, walking in.

* * *

Roberto came home to his family, with a letter Cambiasso had stuck into his hand just before he’d left the man at the train station. He didn’t open it till late that night, when it was so dark he had to go into the garage to read it so he didn’t wake anybody else. It was an offer to join a special task force on organized crime. He didn’t recognize the name at the bottom till a few weeks later, when he was watching the hearing.

Young hotshot reformer, darling of the press who always liked a good screamer. He sat there and quizzed a charming, calm Guardiola on his allegedly illegal dealings, getting hotter and hotter under the collar while Guardiola had everyone chuckling behind their hands at his jokes. Someone had loosened Guardiola up since the last Roberto had seen of him, stone-faced and waiting behind his desk to take the summons without a word. Maybe Figo, maybe not—Figo hadn’t made it down for the hearing, anyway.

“If I try to take an active interest in my community, it’s only what I think every concerned citizen should do,” Guardiola said. “I’m not the first, and I hope I wouldn’t be the last, to think that I could help run my city.”

Someone nudged Roberto in the back and he turned to see Cambiasso. “Cutting it close for an answer,” Cambiasso said.

“Well, I haven’t gotten one. For my question.” Roberto leaned against the banister and looked down at the pews behind Guardiola. He noticed a young man passing Guardiola a note through the railing. Then he nodded at Guardiola. “What’s the difference between him and you?”

Guardiola glanced left in the pause after another joke, while everyone was laughing. He looked at somebody standing in the aisle at the side, just behind the camera banks. His face hardened and he fluffed his next answer, letting a little too much sarcasm slip into his voice. Then he smiled and smoothed it away with a quip, but from above Roberto could see how tense he was.

“That’s José Mourinho,” Cambiasso said. “Newly elected.”

“Elected?” Then Roberto snorted. “Well, he ran far enough, I guess he found somewhere that’d do that. But he should be down there right next to Guardiola.”

“Well, there’s your answer,” Cambiasso replied. He put his hand on Roberto’s shoulder and leaned in, smiling. “You didn’t come here to ask questions.”

For a while Roberto watched the proceedings below. He felt Cambiasso shift away but keep looking at him. Then he looked away from the questions and answers, back at the other man. He reached into his coat and took out a package wrapped in brown paper. It rattled a little—he hadn’t taped Doe’s personals tight enough to the logbook, he guessed—but nobody seemed to notice. Roberto gave it to Cambiasso.

Cambiasso tucked it into his coat and stepped away, then waited for Roberto. Then he led Roberto out into the hall, where he handed Roberto an envelope that rattled. “Keys,” he said. “You start tomorrow.”

Roberto nodded. He let the other man go back in, but he stayed out in the hall for a few minutes. He looked in the envelope, then sealed up the flap again. Then he breathed in, and went back inside. He didn’t take a seat.


	11. Number Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next round always starts with good intentions.

The printers were halfway through setting the type for the morning paper when the news came in, and cursed the whole paper to hell when they were told. One even threw an empty beer bottle at Samir’s head. But the asshole was already turning away, his other hand scooping out the sorts, so the bottle went wide. It smashed on the second step below Samir.

He didn’t bother getting a broom, and nobody noticed to call after him as he went back up the stairs. By then some of the day staff had come in and were stumbling around bleary-eyed, trying to get to their desks and phones at the same time as the night staff. Two beat men and a copy editor yelled at Samir to get them coffee before he got through the staff room and into the closet with the camp stove and the coffee pot. He checked the pot, saw that it was half-full and ran it under the tap till it was brimming. Then he stuck it on the stove and cranked up the heat. It’d be so watered that it’d barely taste enough like coffee to cover up the coppery tap water taste, but most of the staff would be dosing it up with booze anyway. And Samir wasn’t drinking it.

Somebody tapped on the door as Samir was stepping back from the stove. He looked up and Cesc was leaning in the doorway. Cesc had one sleeve of his coat on, and the rest of it dragged round front to wrap around two steaming newsprint-wrapped bundles. They smelled like tomatoes and garlic and pork. He also had Samir’s coat and tossed that over before he turned around.

They sneaked through the chaos of hollering reporters to one of the stairwells, where Cesc gave Samir his sandwich and then tore into his own without so much as a hello. He ate two huge bites before wiping his mouth and looking up. His eyes were glinting in the half-light. “You heard, right?”

“I just got back from seeing Ibrahimović and Maldini walk into Guardiola’s old penthouse suite,” Samir said. He chewed off most of the top of his sandwich. He hadn’t eaten since the sun had gone down and his stomach was just now remembering. “Even the society columnists are going crazy. They haven’t even cleaned the place yet.”

“No, not that.” Cesc crumpled the newsprint down his sandwich. He looked into the bread for a moment, almost like he was going to smash his face into it. Then he put the sandwich on his knee and looked up at Samir. “The sleeper train. I was at the central station when it came in and you know who got off? Iniesta, that’s who.”

Samir blinked. “Are you sure?”

“Hell, yes,” Cesc muttered. “I’d know Andrés anywhere.”

Tomato sauce soaked through the newsprint and dripped water on Samir’s thumb. He crumpled the paper thicker over the spot, then stuck his thumb in his mouth and sucked it off. Then he took another bite of his sandwich. “You say hi?” he mumbled.

It was a moment before Cesc answered. When he did, the tone of his voice made Samir look slowly at him. “No. He…I don’t know if they told him everything yet. I think he’d want to hear that first, and he shouldn’t hear it from me.”

“Are you going to see him?” Samir asked. He put his sandwich on his knee.

Cesc looked over, then shifted on the step like he was going to get up. Instead he started to fold the paper back around his sandwich. He had most of it left, and it was cooling so that the cheese wasn’t sticking so much to the newsprint now. “He knows…somebody’ll tell him where to find me. I’m on till at least noon, Bobby said. Probably later than that. I heard Dennis saying that the boss is catching a mail train back from the capital, and when he gets here who knows what’ll happen.”

“Who knows what’s going to happen already,” Samir snorted. He looked down at his sandwich. He only had a third left and he dealt with that in three bites. It was messy but the newsprint did to wipe his hands and his mouth, and he knew Cesc wasn’t going to mind his breath. He balled up the greasy paper in his hand and then tossed it onto the landing below them. “Guardiola’s in jail and it looks like it’s going to stick this time. It’s anybody’s call, isn’t it?”

“No.” Then Cesc grimaced. He raised his sandwich to his mouth, then put it down. Then he turned to Samir. “I’m not stupid, okay? I’ve been hanging around Dennis same as you, and if he says that there’s no wiggle room, I believe him. But that doesn’t mean that just anybody’s going to waltz into town and take over. Zlatan and his partners are trying, sure, but let’s see where they are in a couple months.”

Samir slid back against the wall so he could rest his head against it. “So that’s where you’re going after your shift?”

“I work for the paper, and you know what the boss says,” Cesc said a little quick. “We’re around to report the news, not to be it.”

“I was just asking,” Samir shrugged. “You know where I come from, and I respect the boss but I’ve got to go home once in a while. You know?”

After a while the right corner of Cesc’s mouth turned up. He nodded. “I know.”

From down below rose a deep grumbling that made the walls and floor shake. They’d started up the presses again. It was a little soon for them to have swapped out the front page, so they must have decided to print off the classifieds and the sections that didn’t need changing. In another hour the runners would be clamoring for their daily loads, so probably they didn’t have any choice.

“You think they’re not going to ask for you?” Samir asked.

Cesc started. Then he glanced at Samir on the way to running his hand over the top of his head. He chewed at his lip a little. “I promised.” He dropped his hand and stared at the floor. “I promised P—my friends, and then the boss when he gave me a job. That I’d stay out of that. Just like Andrés did. Was doing.”

“I said that too,” Samir said after a long moment. “To my friends. They only got me a place here because I said that that was the only and the last favor I was going to take from them. I had too good an eye to be running around the streets, they said.”

“Couple more months, they’ll probably start giving you a camera instead of making you clip photos all the time,” Cesc replied. He didn’t look over and didn’t sound like he was listening too closely. It wasn’t on purpose. His face said he was trying his best to think hard about all the things he was thinking about. “You are too good.”

Samir snorted. “I know.”

It took a few seconds but Cesc looked over. Then he put out his hand and clapped it over Samir’s knee. His smile was a white flash as he got up. He shook his head on the way down to the landing, where he picked up Samir’s discarded paper, and then again on the way back up.

“And besides, I’ve already rode some friends to the morgue,” Samir added. “They didn’t have to tell me what it costs.”

Cesc stopped smiling. He stared at Samir for a moment, then looked away, frowning. “I’ve never…just the funeral afterward. And sitting with the family.”

“I think that bit’s worse.” Samir pushed off the wall and sat up. “But soon as the morning paper’s out, I’m going home. I want to see how everybody is.”

“You can’t borrow a phone?” Cesc asked, sitting back down. “If you’re worried about somebody overhearing—”

“I don’t want to call. I want to _see_ ,” Samir said sharply. Then he exhaled loudly and dropped his foot to the next step down. He looked over Cesc’s head, at the window there and the tiny sliver of sky he could see through it. “You can have all the news in town but sometimes you’ve just got to see for yourself, you know?”

Cesc started to reply.

“I know what they’re saying, but I can be there and back in an hour.” Samir paused, then reached into his pocket. He took out his knife and flicked the blade out so that Cesc could see it. Then he folded that up and put it away. “I can take care of myself if there’s trouble. Just because I work here doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten how to do that.”

“I wasn’t going to say that,” Cesc said. Then he put out his hand so that Samir couldn’t stand up. He held it there a moment before standing up himself. “Listen, I’ve got another friend who lives where you’re heading. Wait for me and I’ll go with you, all right? If we take my car it’ll be faster.”

Samir grinned. He grabbed Cesc’s shoulder to steady the other man as they started down the steps. Then he slid his arm around Cesc’s neck. “Thanks.”

“Nothing to thank me for. I do have somebody I want to see,” Cesc said. “But I’ve got to be back before the boss is—”

“It won’t be that long, I swear,” Samir said. “Just a stop in to see, and then we’re gone. I promise.”

* * *

Robert was looking out the window when someone knocked on his door. He started, then glanced over his shoulder. Then he grimaced and turned back around. He heard footsteps come up behind him and gestured at his desk. “Telegram,” he said. “From Cesc. He says he’s sorry, but there’s something…”

“Goddamn it.” Paper scraped against wood as the telegram was roughly flipped over. “He’s gone. Him and Nasri, then.”

“I think so,” Robert said. He stared out at the street below. Barely dawn and it was already filling up, wide-eyed first-timers being ground out of the way by the long-time residents who all knew the place and the pattern. Here and there a few stood out for the sharp cut of their clothes and the sharper edge to their swagger. Not as many as usual, but Robert didn’t doubt that that’d be rectified tomorrow. “He’s got a personal emergency he wants to take care of, and then he’ll—”

“They always say that.” Then Adams sighed. “They’re gone.”

When Robert turned, Adams was already walking out the door. “Tony,” Robert said.

“I’ll tell the boss,” Adams tossed over his shoulder. “You go and find somebody to stand in for Cesc till we’ve time to sort through the new ones. All right?”

“All right.” For another moment Robert watched him. Then he shook his head and went to his desk. He stared at the telegram, then flicked it into the wastebin at the desk’s side and sat down. He picked up the closest file and got started on the day’s work.


End file.
